Redress
by Kourion
Summary: "I feel the impact of my words hit her as I take in her slight pulse beneath my fingertips. The rushed increase of blood moving faster through her veins. The contortion of her features into something rawer, too. Something almost broken." Noncon. J/L-esque
1. Chapter 1

**Title - Redress**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **Sometimes the most innocuous events can signal brutal happenings. Such as a telephone ringing once in the night, and then abruptly stopping. Warnings: for violence and sensitive subject matter.

**A/N: **First off, I am brand new to The Mentalist fandom. Need I say it again? :) Of course, with this admission comes a bit of a potential apology, because I'm going off relatively few episodes of the show. If any of the characters are OOC, well, I really do apologize. I know how annoying that can be - truly. And of course, please keep in mind this is angst, and if I decide to go beyond a one shot and flesh it out a bit more, Jane and Lisbon (in particular) will probably be sounding more and more like themselves as time goes on. But do you know what helps a fledgling fangirl write better fanfic? Do you? Reviews! Reviews are love.

And secondly - this story contains some pretty sensitive subject matter. Mostly for the inherent violence associated with rape, along with discussions pertaining to some pretty disturbing coping mechanisms, and alcoholism as well. Nothing described in extreme detail, but definite discourse on these subjects throughout. Right now it's rated T, given no explicit references, but I still thought a warning was in order.

Additionally, this story will be told from Jane's POV throughout. It's largely Jane/ Lisbon friendship oriented, but Jisbon if you squint.

* * *

"The ax forgets, the tree remembers."

Maya Angelou, _Even the Stars Look Lonesome_, 1997

* * *

I have this unbelievable hatred of hospitals. I've always hated them. I mean, ever since I was a kid. Just a little kid. The scent of sickness, death. You just knew you'd get ill in one of these places, or someone you loved would die in one.

I know it sounds insane to put it like that, because a hospital is a place where you take the ill, the sick, the dying. To heal them. To save them. But I've always had this fear of hospitals all the same.

And I'm always trying to look out, and see it - that fear. On others, coming from others. On their faces, or to hear it - in their words, vocalized, or the words of their body. The sentences conveyed by the posturing of hands, the stance held, the sway of movement through the spine, or the rigidity of a fixed expression.

That rigid fixed look. Like setting concrete. That's a sign as good as any that you've hit on either some sort of devastating truth or some sort of fear. The fear itself is harder to map out though, harder to flesh out. It's harder to learn the language of fear, individualized.

I feel warmth then, hands that lack the fiest I'm used to and have grown to appreciate...

"Can I get you a coffee, Jane? Tea...something?," and her large eyes search mine with such focused intensity, I'm reminded of a fawn. Innocent. New. Fresh.

And I wonder how Van Pelt`s eyes can look quite that innocent, quite that new to me, after what we've just heard. What she's heard earlier this morning.

_'Moderate concussion - slight bleeding in the brain. She's awake, yes, but highly - disoriented, Mr. Jane...and for the next few hours I'm holding off on visitors...'_

Shepherding me to the closest waiting room chair - a red plastic monster in sparkly 50's ugliness just mocking everything further - Van Pelt gently motions for me to sit.

"We don't know how much longer until we can...until they let us see her," and her voice drops almost in apology, "and you're wrecked..."

_It's only been three hours since the call from the hospital. And only two since they muttered anything at all about what happened..._

"I'm not wrecked," but even as I say the words, I know they are lies.

_'No. Not even for flowers, sir. We aren't finished with all the exams, and we don't want to ups-...'_

The truth is...out of everyone here, I might be the only one aside from the doctors who knows that Teresa's not just suffering from a concussion. And maybe because of this, I know that I have to be the first one to see her.

"You look _gray_, Jane. Don't tell me that's just sleep deprivation."

I hold up my hands in a _'oh, ya got me!'_ sort of swoop, and then rub at my eyes, willing some of the aching coldness to depart from my center, from my heart before I pick up a battered white Bible from the magazine table. Some little kid has crayoned a green dinosaur over the Holy part, and scrawled ROAR in purple marker. I am now holding the one and only true Roar Dinosaur Bible. Yeeeah - some poor kid is going to hell for sure.

I open up the cover, and search for more doodles, but apparently the kid lost his spark, his muse - because all that reads on the next page is the oversized messy scrawl stating: "thnks a lot ande com agayn!"

**_*You have reached Teresa Lisbon at 477-2829. Please leave a brief message with your name, and telephone number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks a lot.*_**

"Jane!"

Van Pelt's just looking at me as if I'm stripped naked or something equally inappropriate.

"Sorry?" And she goes to say something else, that look of concern too strong and out of place for someone who has just lost themselves in thought. Rigsby, too, waves us over from his place at the ER check-in desk, where a portly doctor in green scrubs and a white coat is looking on, impatiently.

"Sorry," I reiterate, feeling a little lost.

I approach softly, almost as if anything heavier is going to change what I'm about to hear. Almost as if I don't want to disturb the current calm.

"Mr. Patrick Jane?," the doctor queries, and when I nod gruffly, he adds, "can you come with me, please?"

And of course Van Pelt and Rigsby, and even Cho, who is nursing a rather large black coffee, look all too entirely mutinous at the suggestion that they somehow can't come along.

A slight nose pinching and scrunching of the eyes, and I just KNOW that_..."Dr. Dylan Phelps"_ is a migraine sufferer.

"I'm sorry; hospital policy. Family only."

I want to nod and play the ruse, but Cho decides to play the spoil sport routine instead.

"He's not family!"

"Family, and _medically appointed next-of-kin _only, excuse me...," and I startle at that, then, too, while I take a look at a photocopied medical alert form and catch Lisbon's chicken scratch hand writing, the messy _Patrick Jane_, with my contact address and phone number running together in a very messy blend.

"You didn't know?," interrupts the slightly balding man to my left, not unkindly, before I see the slightest exhalation of breath.

When I fail to say anything, he adds, "Well, all the same, you are Agent Lisbon's medical proxy, so..."

And I feel something not exactly dead and not exactly alive coil in my belly. An ancient fear, from before, when I was in a similar position.

**_*"You are the medical proxy for your daughter, now, Mr. Jane. This decision is yours..."*_**

"Tell me...," and I hate my voice for going so gruff at that moment. For sounding so weak. "What else? - tell me."

...****...****...****...

* * *

Lisbon is curled up into a ball, smothered in blankets, her green eyes blandly scanning over some magazine or pamphlet that a nurse must have brought to her. Actually, only one green eye scans the paper - the other eye so swollen as to be completely incapable of opening. The right side of her face looks as if someone has smashed it into a rock repeatedly. A butterfly bandage sneaks around, and I see the slightest bit of pink darkening the cotton.

As I approach, she shifts and moves up higher in the bed.

Up and away.

I try to stay in her central line of sight, knowing she really only has the use of one eye for the next while. Her repositioning, however, gives me a rather unfortunate study of the rest of her face, her throat, her neck...

Good God - it looks like a wild animal clawed at her throat, and I find myself swallowing down a rather horrible mass before I attempt to approach her any closer.

_`Her necklace is gone...`_

"Teresa...," I start slowly, not knowing what to do to alleviate some of the fear I feel coming off her in waves. Residual fear. The type that lingers with you for quite awhile after something really shakes you up - shakes you up and threatens your sense of security. My voice, of course, is too worked up to really sound like my own, and I try again.

"Uh...wha- what are you reading?," which may sound like an absolutely idiotic question, except it really is not, because I know she heard me the first time and just chose not to respond.

**_Chose...chose not to, or cannot speak easily..._**

"Can...you really not talk? You always can talk...," I say at last, knowing that response will get a rise out of her and that anything will be better than this dulled, slow moving...victim.

And I see it then, an expression I have seen on Lisbon a hundred times before. Indignation.

Her lean hand reaches out - the one unfettered by the cast and sling - and reaches for a pad of canary writing paper and a black sharpie that has had the cap taken off and is obviously drying out. After a few frantic seconds, the sharpie stops its scrawling and Lisbon pushes the paper towards me, bumping a glass of water as she does so.

"_It hurts_," I read out loud for us both, stressing the word hurts, which has been purposefully underlined three times, before looking back over to her once more. I establish eye contact before asking as calmly as possible, "where do you feel pain, Lisbon?"

I catch the change in coloration then - from pale to bone-white china, the skin looking bloodless, the one open eye searing in a sort of furiousness, before I see my boss turn back to her magazine, bringing up the defenses, the trembling in her limbs stilling as she presses down against her knees. To anyone else, surely, all they`d see now is anger. But I have known her for two years now. I know anger is the first cover she uses to hide her fear.

**_*Stay calm, stay calm, Jane.*_**

"Hmm...I did not see you write a response. Or do you just not want to answer the question?"

And then at last, the small hand reaches forwards again, swiftly wiping at the one open eye with the back of the sling material, the whole face looking so lost that I almost want to reach out and stop what I am doing entirely. But I do not. Not yet.

Sensing my approach, the canary pad transfers back to her lap and this time the message is produced even more quickly.

"_My throat_," I read outloud again, glancing up at Lisbon with what I hope is really not too obvious a look of expectation.

"That's all?," and when I glance up again, it is in time to see the woman before me nod curtly to the cover of her Psychology Today magazine instead of me.

Sighing I bend down to pick up the overturned water glass, and mop up the remaining water with some left over tissue paper I manage to extract from my vest pocket.

"You don't need to tell me if you don't want to - but don't lie to me, because I **_know_**. Did you think I would not figure it out?," and right on cue the face turns upwards, looking scandalized, the lips a litany of _no's_, opening and closing soundlessly like a fish out of water.

"Traumatized people suffer damage to the basic structures of the self," and all the while I speak I see that petite head start to shake in denial, not wanting to hear. I take her good arm, her uninjured arm and capture it between my hands, "Listen to me! They lose trust in themselves, in other people, in God..."

I come a little closer then, and catch the hitch of breath, the holding in of air as she stills almost entirely, her eyes mock-scanning the magazine title, not really taking in anything at all anymore and I feel as if I am losing her to herself. But I know if I had had someone who I had trusted... and who could have cut through the fog of derealization right after I lost my wife and daughter, I might have avoided winding up as an involuntary psych patient in the first place.

"Rapists are motivated by the urge to dominate, and humiliate their victims. You KNOW this, Lisbon. And I know you are aware that like a torturer, they do so by using the most intimate acts available to humans - sexual ones."

She pulls back then, quickly, jerks with all her strength and I let go immediately, to note without sufficient comprehension or speed how both hands have curled up into little fists only to descend upon the wall to her side in one quick flash of rage. On the next upswing, I catch the arm and hold it firmly to my side, stopping all speech, while the arms slowly go limp in my own. After a few minutes, I let both arms go free, only to have Lisbon quickly furl in upon herself once more.

Stunned, and angry with myself for pushing her at all, I let some of the tension dissipate.

"I'm sorry I didn't know to come. I'm sorry I didn't know what it meant," and this catches her now, my whispers, so soft, so...damnably soft as I'm almost as mad with myself as I am with the two men that did this to her. So when she looks up at me warily, I don't even know if I should continue, or if it would be better for her sake if I didn't. "I heard the phone...my phone rang. Only once. A little after midnight. And then it stopped. Your cell. I didn't know what it meant. When I called back and I got no answer. I should have...I should have gone to see if you were okay."

When she finally turns to me again, she doesn't even attempt to cover up the fact that she has started to cry. And because the motion is accompanied by only the slightest wheezing from a damaged throat as she clamps down on her sobs, the whole room is still unnaturally quiet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title - Redress - Chapter 2**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **Sometimes the most innocuous events can signal brutal happenings. Such as a telephone ringing once in the night, and then abruptly stopping. Warnings: for violence and sensitive subject matter.

* * *

_"For some moments in life there are no words." _~David Seltzer

* * *

The tears stop pretty abruptly, Libson taking in only a slightly accelerated intake of air. But I take in declarations of forced control and composure in the little gestures, the little ways she moves about rigidly on the mattress before she reaches towards the bedside table, and hurriedly looks through the magazines, selecting something completely new.

Her motions are bordering on frantic, belying her true state of mind. From where I sit, I think I catch a flash of the word _American_, and the star cluster galaxy photo on the cover leads me to assume it's the popular science magazine.

Studying her, I catch the clenching of her jaw, the way the skin around her mouth stretches, and how the bones of her skull seem just a little more angular with the tension. No eye contact now - she's very deliberately avoiding looking at me - although I sense it has more to do with the fact that she's upset that I saw her cry at all, rather than the fact that maintaining eye contact would give me access to her current thoughts and insecurities.

Although I do have a strong suspicion that Lisbon thinks, just a little bit, that I _can_ read her mind. It's probably some latent worry that insinuates itself in her mind when I do my psychic-act bit a little too well.

It's something I most definitely cannot afford to do right now - if not for awhile. It can unnerve people at the best of times, and that's the last thing I would want her to feel.

After about five minutes of quietude, during which time she evidently marks off responses to a science quiz, I feel the impatient need to connect with her rear its head. And I'm not usually quite so insistent. Not when someone really needs the space. But Lisbon seems as if she's steeling herself to deny or deflect.

Sure, it can deaden emotion. It can numb. Which is a very attractive prospect once that pain starts coming in full force. Once it starts to take your breath away. Once you start to feel as if it's burying you under the sheer weight of the emotion, and there's so much pain that you can't even breathe, the pain...

..._you're quite sure - now more physical. The racing of your heart, the weak, dead, leaden feeling in your limbs. The way your hands and feet feel prickly and how you feel disconnected from your body. The need to vomit, to bring it all out, all of it. Not just the food, but the poison. The poison that has filled your cells. The poison that burns so intensely that you finally take a box cutter from your storage room two months after your wife and child have been murdered, and you open up the arteries in the crux of tissue near your elbow, inverted. Nothing excessive - just enough. Just enough to get the poison out._

_''You know this is not meant as a punishment, Patrick. You know why we have to be very, very certain...''_

And if I was as courageous as I want her to be, now, I'd tell her all this out loud.

Because not only would it be of her immediate benefit, not only would it help her feel less...ashamed right this second - but experience, long-term experience, has also taught me the hard way.

I know that denial can also lead to problems of a more...uninhibited nature. It's just not as readily apparent. Not in the beginning. Therein lies the danger.

Because by the time everything is falling apart, you are addicted to the numbness. But because you've convinced yourself, and everyone around you, that you are _dealing _you also can miss the tiny steps leading to self-destruction equally well. Especially if you are sufficiently schooled in the art of repression. Which I suspect Lisbon _is_...

I am very knowledgeable as to just how detrimental denial of reality can be. Intimately aware of just how far it can set a person back.

_I wasn't in a locked ward for nothing. _

Even through the cloth of my button down shirt, I can feel the ridges of those white keloid scars. Bands and cords of white line that went half way through my forearms, from the inner crook of the radial artery line, to my elbow. Puncture marks, more than the long, lean trails of red that most depressives and those contemplating suicide would make.

Mine are deep, but short. Aggressive, angry, self-loathing - that's what I had felt that night. Impulsively deep, and blessingly diminished in length. Unarguably easy to disguise in three piece suits or long sleeved shirts, so long as I don't roll up the cuffs further than mid-way along my arms.

No, I don't like the idea that Lisbon thinks she has to deflect from _me._ I don't like the idea that _she_ feels ashamed. The unfairness of it all is too hard to take.

"Are you just _not_ going to talk to me at all then - is that it? Just play it like I'm not here?"

Typical Lisbon - proud, and determined.

See looks up at that, and I see her good eye roll heavenward, as if exasperated.

"I get it. I**_ do_**. No pushing, not on this. But that doesn't mean you have to tune us out," and I gingerly tug at the corner of the magazine while she lightly slaps my hand away and gives me a mock aggravated look. But she's not really aggravated. She's frightened. And Lisbon hates feeling frightened more than just about anything. It leaves her feeling out of control, and brings back all sorts of childhood memories she'd _also_ rather deny.

"But - that being said, I know that they're going to make you talk to someone pretty soon...and I really thought we should discuss some things before then."

A raspy _"what?," _incredulous, vexed. It sounds as if she's getting over a bad case of laryngitis.

"Dr. Phelps informed me that someone would be coming to talk to you soon...someone who specializes in assault."

I deliberately avoid the word rape. I was witness to just how badly she reacted to the term just a few minutes ago. CBI agent or not, I suspect that Lisbon puts rape in a category worse than death. It's an equal violation to murder. Because then you have to address everything you've gone through afterwards, and I've seen just how stubborn Lisbon can be when forced into situations that mess around with her emotions.

She heavily exhales then, so forcefully that the magazine page she'd been in the process of turning flutters about for a second.

"Police-somebody or shrink-somebody?," and again, the raspy voice is back. It certainly sounds painful to speak. For one ludicrous second, I want to offer her a cough drop.

I carefully consider my next words, knowing that just about anything I say about her needing to see a therapist is going to set her off.

"The latter, I think. Sounded like...standard procedure. I wouldn't take it _personally_..." and I glance quickly to my watch. "Dr. Phelps mentioned you've been slotted in for something like quarter to ten, so - I just thought you'd want to know..."

A curt nod, and I hear the barest_ 'thanks' _as Lisbon pulls her sweatshirt more tightly around her body as if it's a shield that will protect her from just about anyone or anything or any question that will soon be coming her way. Scooting up in the bed, she tosses the magazine to the side and fiddles with her hair, trying to capture all the loose strands in an elastic. I know the action is generated more by a need to deaden anxiety rather than superficial concern over her appearance.

"May I?," and I ask it lightly, easily. "It's going to be hard for you to do that as well as you'd like for awhile..."

I can see that her hands are shaking, and feel discomfort for her. Usually when someone I care about is really upset, I know how to help.

_When my little girl woke up from a nightmare, she'd usually wake me, not Julia, and I would turn on half the lights in the house, and piggy-back Ivy around the house and down to the kitchen. And we'd have cocoa made in a little stainless steel pan, using real cream and much more sugar than my wife would ever have approved of... Sometimes I would do different cartoon impersonations. Daffy Duck, or Mickey Mouse._

_"Daddeee! Do Porky Pig! Do Porky Pig, Daddy!" And she'd giggle in such a way that I always had to pause and absorb the sound, because it was like sunlight. Pure and clean and given to making things grow. And Ivy would sometimes clamp down on her mouth, baby teeth biting into her lower lip to keep from laughing too loudly. Sometimes she'd even attempt to do an impersonation too, but with her lisp she could never get it quite right, and more often than not I'd be the one grinning like an idiot._

But Lisbon won't even look at me right now.

_One time Ivy laughed so hard, it *did* come up her nose and she sputtered cocoa all over her baby doll pajamas, soaking the front of them, and inhaling the rest down into her lungs. Which set her off on a coughing spell and set **me** off laughing, while I gently pummeled my daughter's back until she could catch her breath again._

_We did eventually wake Julia._

_The two of us were always getting into trouble like that..._

Lisbon holds out the purple elastic to me then, tentatively, as if she's not quite sure why I'd do so simple a favor. As if she's waiting for me to launch into a joke or do something batty, when in fact, I can't help the gross seriousness that has settled in the pit of my stomach. Obviously the severity of the morning has sobered me up.

Taking the tie from her cold hands, I make a mental note to request more blankets or hot tea for her or _something, _all the while grimly noting how the plum colored band is nearly the same shade as the marks around Lisbon's throat, around her wrists, and the bruising around her eyes.

Some not too far-off rage is coiling in my gut.

Taking the elastic, I connect with her, and before I realize how or when I clasp one of her petite hands in my own, my thumb swirling circles lightly over her skin, careful of the bruising.

When she doesn't immediately shirk me off, I continue my ministrations, knowing that they are calming her down.

"I look like such a mess, and now I have to see a shrink," she tries again, the voice still barely audible, yet so hoarse that I'm starting to consider that maybe the notepad routine was a better idea.

I hold Lisbon's gaze for a moment, giving her what I hope is _'are you serious?'_ expression, before I slowly come round to her back, and gently smooth at the damp ebony tendrils with my fingers, doing my best to smooth out her hair without a brush or comb. Her hair feels very clean, light, freshly washed - despite the dried blood at the temple.

My intuition tells me that she was attacked during or just after taking a bath.

It's not a question I can ever ask her directly, of course, but it would explain a lot. Least of all why she wasn't in immediate possession of her gun, or able to retrieve it quickly.

"You don't look a mess, Lisbon. You look tired and hurt. Besides, I really don't think anyone is caring about that right now, other than you."

Right now I feel destabilized. Off my game. I usually joke to break tension. But I can't joke right now, given what has happened, and so Lisbon's quiet for a couple seconds longer, and nearly immobile while I loop the elastic around in a low ponytail while doing my best not to pull on the hair too much. Not with all the bruising and bandages.

"It's the best I can do without a brush, hon," and the words are out of my mouth almost before I can believe it. _Hon?_ The last person I called _Hon_' was Julia. _Hon_ for Julia, _Sweetheart_ or _Skipper_ for Ivy. I try to disguise the slip by continuing on as if nothing has happened.

"Do you want to see the others for a little bit beforehand? I know they are all pretty worried..."

It's not that I like to rile people up for the sake of it. But I know they are all sick with worry and dread, thinking that Lisbon is possibly near death or something.

"Hmm? Whaddja say?," and I nudge her lightly with my shoulder.

I can sense her apprehension. I know her worries. She doesn't want them to see her as a victim.

She's black and blue and cut up, and I know a lot of that is due to the fact that she never, ever gave in. Had she been still, had she been motivated by fear or self-preservation, she would have been hurt but not nearly as badly. The concussion, the broken arm...the extent of her injuries are a fighter's injuries. The scratches on her throat are testament to that fact.

"You need to stop thinking you could have changed something here...There is **nothing** more you could have done. **_Nothing_**!," and the words are whispered but not any quieter, truly. My hands on her own, the circles never stopping. I can feel her pulse, and it is going through the roof. I have to quell some old, ancient feeling of protection. A feeling that I had just assumed had died out when Julia and Ivy did. I have to resist pulling up one of those small hands and kissing it. Or stroking her face.

I've always been more physically affectionate. Huggy. Hands-on. Maybe it's because I really got none of it myself growing up. By the time I had my own family...it was like I was nutrient deficient when it came to that sort of stuff.

Lisbon, I suspect, didn't get a lot of hugs or softness or tenderness either. But instead of clamoring towards affection or affectionate people, she pushed it away entirely. Affectionately celibate.

I'm surprised she's letting me just hold her hand.

Looking down at her small fingers, I can see the slightest, smallest flecks of brown.

Dried blood.

_She really, really fought. She probably would have fought even with a knife to her throat or a gun to her head._

_This was her nightmare. **This. **_

I'm suddenly filled with such anger. Such terrible anger at what has happened. The immediate anger is stronger right now than what I felt for Julia or Ivy in the first few days and weeks after they were killed. Maybe because...they were gone, I couldn't hold them, I couldn't tell them how sorry I was.

And Lisbon's alive. Alive.

Not well. But still here.

**_Which means she can recover..._**

Knowing that, I think it bypasses a little bit of the pain. I close my eyes and try to will some calmness back into my demeanor. I can't afford to spook her right now.

"The swelling won't go away right away. And you can't avoid them forever..."

She certainly doesn't want them to know the details.

"But that doesn't mean you have to talk about this with them, either. They just want to see you. They just want to know you're okay."

**_"Okay."_**

**_The idea is almost laughable._**

I know without question that Lisbon puts being beaten into a completely different category than being raped. I suspect, and have in the past, that maybe she had been abused by her father. Not sexually, but physically. She's never responded normally to physical pain - she's always tried to write it off as unimportant, and I have always had the nagging doubt that she was personally familiar with being used by an aggressive figure.

So it's not the physical violence that has shaken her.

Although I can see the self-recrimination in her eyes. She has always prided herself on being strong. On being able to use her slight frame and meager poundage to take down suspects twice or three times her size. In Lisbon's mind, that's just part of who she **_is_** and the fact that she couldn't prevent something so deplorable from happening to her has been a big blow to her self-esteem.

I know that already, but her next words confirm it outright, and for all time.

"You're not to tell them...about...," and she doesn't finish or can't finish, but the fierce look in her eyes would be enough to cause most to pause and accept the terms.

I'm not most people.

"This is not something you can keep from the team, Teresa."

I had hoped my voice would have matched hers in conviction. It's hard to match Lisbon in terms of conviction.

"My decision. Not yours. It's my decision as to when or if I tell them anything!"

Stubborn woman. Can't she see it won't be that simple? There is bruising around her throat and wrists. One look at her, and Van Pelt is going to suspect the worst. And one question from Rigsby or Cho, who I can count on for being a little less discrete than Grace, and it's all going to be as clear as day. If for no other reason than the fact that Lisbon is a terrible liar.

But she's right. This is her call, and this is her decision. And given everything that has happened, I'm not going to do anything else that could make her feel powerless.

I rub my palms against my trousers, trying to dispel the chill that has taken up residence in my bones.

* * *

**A/N: **busy, crazy, hectic time these last few weeks. Two funerals. And I've been quite sick from the new ulcer medication I've been put on... (some of that is going away now). I do have plans to carry on with the story, and hopefully I'll have a new chapter out in the next week or so. But this is essentially just a warning, in case there is a delay. Like always, reviews are like candy! Delicious cinnamon-y heart Jisbon-y candy. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Title - Redress - Chapter 3**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **Sometimes the most innocuous events can signal brutal happenings. Such as a telephone ringing once in the night, and then abruptly stopping. Warnings: for violence and sensitive subject matter.

* * *

_"Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point." - C.S. Lewis__  
_

* * *

They release her with specific conditions on day two.

It's that, or a Lisbon-threatened AMA on day 1. She's antsy to go. She doesn't want to speak to a shrink, not again, and I can't say I blame her.

She's still woozy, her head is still giving her pain, and I suspect some of the physical symptoms are still generating fear, appropriately so. She's denying it, of course - playing it like it's not bothering her as much as I know it is. As if she broke her arm in a skiing accident, or injured her skull in an automobile crash. But she's also taken to wearing layers. Layer after layer of undershirts and then long flannel shirts, and then sweatshirts from her rookie cop days. She continuously pulls down on the sleeves whenever they slide up and risk exposing flesh.

She hasn't asked to go home, exactly. She's just asked to leave.

The forensics team, I'm sure, are still working at her apartment. That...or the locksmith and repair guys are undoubtedly still lingering about. Last I heard from Agent Benton, there wasn't an excessive amount of damage to the door frames or exterior windows which is unnerving, and it's for that reason alone that the CBI is checking out everything in great detail. The security alarm was down, but there was no evidence of tampering.

The whole thing reeks of something a little more professional, a little more... _thought out_...than a random attack on a pretty woman in her apartment.

So yeah. Something tells me that Lisbon may not want to go home for awhile. When I asked her about it - where she wants to go, what she wants to do...I saw the look in her eyes. A flash of apprehension. The inner emotional battle to appear strong and in control and unflappable contrasted with an irrepressible panic at the prospect of going back to her apartment. _That _place. And the alternative of her staying with me seems even less attractive to her, I'm sure - not that I've asked her just yet. I'm still considering how to phrase the suggestion, or even how to pull it off so I don't bring Lisbon from one unfortunate dwelling to another.

My house isn't really... guest friendly. And that's putting it mildly.

_But maybe there is still some alternative..._

At any rate, work won't be a worry, or even a possibility, for some time. Certainly not field work, not for her. Her cast minimally has to stay on for 6 weeks, and probably even longer than that given that it was a compound spiral fracture. Which essentially was caused when someone held her arm and twisted it in its socket, or else held her arm while she flung herself about with sufficient force to fracture bone.

Both situations leave me feeling nauseated, and for the umpteenth time in the last forty hours, I push down a sick, acrid taste.

Yeah. Her arm is in pretty bad shape - and it's her prominent arm. Which means that not only will she not be able to drive for over a month {something that I think will drive the team batty long before Lisbon, actually} but she also won't be able to even draw a gun. In an emergency, she'd be a sitting duck. And really, emergencies are the only reason she's outfitted with a personal weapon in the first place.

I've also learned via Rigsby that Cho's been assigned...temporary Senior Agent status, or something along those lines. Hightower's orders. Along with explicit instructions that Lisbon is to return any cold case files she had booked out for review. Because she's to do absolutely no work. Nada, nope, zilch, zero work. That was made very, very clear. CBI regulations or something.

And that's exactly what I'm thinking about when the second shrink in as many days finally arrives. I start to excuse myself, sensing that I'm leaving Lisbon in competent hands. But as I shut the door, I catch a glimpse of her - milk white skin, raven hair, purple blotched skin...haunted thoughts.

Instinctively Lisbon seems to feel my gaze, and looks up to meet my eyes, some sort of question on the tip of her tongue, nearly vocalized. I can see the interplay of emotions flash across her face, although she seems to repress the question I know she really wants to ask, and looks back down at her lap, beat.

I don't know what to say, to do. All I can mutter is a pathetic, _"I'll be right out in the hall if you need me." _I kick myself mentally not a moment later.

_'"If you need me..."?' _

As if _that _wouldn't offend Lisbon's sensibilities. Any suggestion that she's weak, or even the possibility that she could benefit from support (which, to Lisbon, is synonymous with weak), and she puffs out like a peacock, indignant.

Not this time though, as amazingly it works; I see her shoulders decrease marginally - just a tiny drop in the degree of tension, gone.

_'Maybe...'_

I speak a little louder this time, and I wait until she meets my eyes, and doesn't look away, "Do you want me to say with you, Lisbon?"

She's already gone through the worst of it on her own, unfortunately. Forensics collection, a rape exam, SART kit. Not that she was all too cognizant of what was happening at the time - the concussion, almost a blessing in a sense if it saves her from even just a little more emotional torment. Although it still had to be pretty disturbing given what she had experienced mere hours before. Dr. Phelps mentioned ativan, in passing, and studying her now - I realize why he felt the need to offer medication at all.

"Lisbon - do you want me to stay? Just... let me know what you want."

I try to keep my voice soft, gentle. The sort of voice you'd use it you were trying to coax a little abandoned kitten out from under a car. Even timber, light - just a little less placid than how I'd sound if I were attempting to place someone under hypnosis.

I catch Lisbon frown at my suggestion this time - torn.

_'Yes and no,' _she seems to say with her eyes, her body language. Really, what I gather is that she wants _me to stay_, and for Dr. Hollis to_ leave_. But we both know that's not going to happen. I see her glance back to the psychiatrist, questioning.

"It's your call, Teresa," the woman states primly, no doubt annoyed with me.

And oh - how I love that. Not Senior Agent Lisbon. No, no.

_Teresa. _

As if Lisbon gave her permission...

Studying her from afar, I can tell that the swelling on the right side of her face has gone down considerably in even a day, and that alone makes a staggering difference. She can now open both eyes, which helps - although the sclera of her right eye is an alarming blood red from where there was damage to the vessel. Instead of it being white as it should be, it looks as it someone has replaced her eye with a crimson marble. A little unnerving at the best of times - made more so because the red is almost as dark as the pupil and so barely discernable, especially from a distance.

All the same, meeting her eyes is grounding. For me.

I hate not being able to look _into_ Lisbon when I speak to her. In fact, I'm sure I can gather more from where she's at mentally or emotionally...simply by looking her directly in the eye...

She holds a lot of emotion in her eyes.

Lisbon's raspy voice cuts through the haze of my thoughts. And at least some of the volume has returned - because now it sounds as if she's getting over a sore throat.

_She's healing fairly quickly._

_Physically._

"I don't...I don't know? Maybe? I'm not sure. I-"

I've never seen her this indecisive, this fearful. The petite woman in front of me seems almost like a stranger right now - save for the pink blush of shame at her inability to outright dismiss me from the room. Although that response, for the most part, is physiological, even if prompted by an emotion. It's not a behavioral issue.

And that's really the most alarming issue right now. Behaviorally, Lisbon seems very different - going about all of this, traumatic as it is, far differently than I would have suspected. Which makes me wonder if she's slightly better at hiding her insecurities or problems than I had previously believed.

Lisbon always seemed to be so tough, so invincible-seeming. Resilient to the point of steely. Or so I thought.

Right now, she seems profoundly anxious as her small hands move to the bed, play with the sheets.

Maybe it is because this trauma is still all too fresh, all too raw.

Or maybe she's still too disoriented from her physical injuries. And given the physical trauma alone, I know the sex act must have been unimaginable in its violence...in its force. Its horror. What should have been an act of tenderness between a couple in love was made abhorrent, and perverted.

I wait another moment or so, but when she still hasn't responded one way or the other, I make the decision for her - at least in the immediate. Padding back over towards her bed, I drag an extra plastic chair closer to where she's perched up, stiffly.

Almost hesitantly, I reach out for one of her cold, pale hands with one of my own much larger ones, trying to draw her attention to my presence. I suspect she's feeling very ungrounded, very unreal. I have enough personal experience with emotional shock to know that physical touch can prevent derealization episodes... and that's really what I want to help prevent right now. Because I can sense she's close to slipping into something like that. Her eyes look glassy, and it worries me.

"Lisbon, look at me please," I start softly, and feel some pang of worry at how easily she obeys, "You know you don't need to answer any questions-"

"Mr. Jane! This is really not-"

I continue on as if only Lisbon and I are in the room.

"...you don't need to answer any questions, or talk about anything that's upsetting you right now. You just want to take some deep breaths. Deep, strong breaths and calm down. Because everything is going to be alright now. Everything is alright. Everything is okay."

It's working.

Her shoulders slump a bit, and she leans back slightly against her pillow. I reach over and turn off the glaring bedside lamp, and the immediate area around where Lisbon is resting softens, dims. A few moments later and I can sense she's feeling even more relaxed.

Dr. Hollis sighs, audibly, and I turn to actually muster an apologetic smile. Well, it's the best I can do under the circumstances. I know the woman is only trying to help. What's more, I know Lisbon really _does need_ to speak to a professional. If for no other reason than the fact that I can feel such shame coming off her - so intensely that it's hard to be near her, hard to consider this is how she's feeling. About everything that's occurred. But mostly... about _herself_.

Truthfully, I can also feel a staggering amount of self-revulsion, and it alarms me, makes me wonder just how much self-loathing she's always possessed. For the degree I'm picking up on wouldn't just arise from a single event alone. Even one as vile as assault. No - a leaner, softer version of self-deprecation, of devaluation, would have always had to have been there.

I just didn't pick up on it.

It's an alarming thought. One which makes me contemplate the possibility that Teresa Lisbon is far less transparent than I had originally proclaimed.

So I try again.

"But maybe it would help to talk a little, just a little?"

I catch Lisbon bite down on her bottom lip slightly, hard enough to make it redden, and I realize then that she thinks I'm patronizing her.

"She might be able to give you some tips and suggestions - suggestions to help you feel calmer?"

For although Lisbon is calmer now as I stroke her hand in clockwise circles... she is still flinching at every sound, rigid, and failing to maintain eye contact.

* * *

An hour later, and we haven't covered much ground.

Lisbon bypasses every question she doesn't wish to answer by stating that she _"can't remember very well." _Which is probably true, in part. But I can tell that she's also stretching the truth a great deal, as well; she had far less difficulty physically describing her attackers to the police when they came the day before, which would clearly indicate a rather detailed memory of the events.

In fact, I have a rather strong suspicion that she can recall the events with great recollection.

But I can also feel her pulse, holding her hand as I am doing, and it's clearly going too fast to continue on. Several times I whisper "calm down" as a reminder, which seems to only work for about a nanosecond before the anxiety renews itself and she's left trembling, her heart racing.

If I could only put her in a trance state - although I know she'd balk at the suggestion.

As the end of the hour nears, Dr. Hollis resignedly writes out a script for an anti-anxiety medication and a sleeping aid - both of which Lisbon denies needing, despite evidence to the contrary. Dr. Hollis raises her eyebrows at the protest but wisely says nothing, before proceeding to riffle around in her satchel, procuring some brochures from the RAINN foundation, and information about a support group for law enforcement professionals who have been sexually assaulted.

Then Lisbon's primary care doctor returns to draw more blood, advising her to come back in six months for follow up blood work. We don't need to ask the reasons behind the request. We both know why.

A few final exams remain - and these are all physical, so I'm asked to leave the room outright. This time Lisbon looks adamant that I comply.

* * *

On my way back to the waiting room, I run into Van Pelt... carting a rather full duffel. I recognize it as Lisbon's own emergency bag for last minute cases that require air transport or extended stays away from Sacramento.

"Grace? You do know that Lisbon's being released today, yes?"

She gives me a wan smile, then continues on, explaining that she grabbed whatever basics she thinks Lisbon could possibly need for the next few weeks, before dangling a pair of keys in front of my eyes.

I note that there is a wooden elephant with mock ivory tusks clipped to the chain, along with a green-gold G dangling near the lanyard's end.

"These are yours?"

Grace nods, suddenly looking somber.

"I know what you told me Jane. I know what you _said_. I suspect she... wasn't comfortable sharing what happened in _full_..."

"Grace, no, _listen_-"

She cuts me off, holds up a hand to still me.

"I don't mind, Jane. I'm not mad. I know Lisbon's...private. And out of everyone, including her own family - she made _you_ her medical proxy. But you can't lie to me and tell me this was just a robbery gone bad, Jane. It just doesn't fly. I_ saw her_. I saw how she looked, I saw the look in her eyes. _I get it_. Rigsby and Cho may be easier to fool, but not me - not on this."

Some distant, niggling voice tells me that there's something here, something in what she's saying, something that I probably shouldn't ignore - but I can't deal with anything else right now.

And Grace, at the moment, is okay.

Lisbon is most definitely not.

Of course, deflecting comments from Cho and Rigsby _had_ been so much easier. I had simply made up some story about a robbery. About a robbery that turned a little more physical than the assailants probably had intended.

And Cho and Rigsby nodded their heads, their eyes full of sympathy. They sighed and looked forlorn and thoughtful, but I could sense neither was really too concerned for Lisbon's psyche, her long term mental health.

After all, she's been "roughed up" before, though certainly not as severly. Still, such a story provides a cleaner, tidier portrait of how things should unfold, how Lisbon would deal. Because it wouldn't be the same sort of emotional trauma as being raped by two men over a period of close to four hours. Not the same trauma as being gagged and knotted up in duct tape, knowing that even if you screamed, no one could hear you...

* * *

_' "The radio was turned on... quite loudly, Mr. Jane. Excessively loudly. Local rock station - and Agent Lisbon's neighbour, Ms. Wallace, thought maybe she was holding a party. Given the late hour and Agent Lisbon's general comportment, she found it unsual... but didn't want to cause tension. So she let it go for awhile. At quarter to five in the morning, Ms. Wallace went to Agent Lisbon's door and found it open. Ms. Wallace immediately saw broken glass, mud clumps, and a trail of pink water when she opened the door. She finally located Agent Lisbon in the bathroom, barely conscious. There was blood on the floor, blood in the tub. Ms. Wallace stayed with Agent Lisbon, trying to keep her alert, until the paramedics arrived. Ms. Wallace was able to give essential biographical info, and as Agent Lisbon is in the hospital registry as a officer of the peace, her file was pulled quickly. That's how we were able to notify you, as her contact, her medical proxy..."_ '

* * *

_...definitely not_ the same degree of trauma as having your arm snapped like a twig simply because you won't quit fighting for your life...

So here we are: Grace has cornered me by the coffee machine, the crappy coffee machine that spits out lukewarm instant crap coffee, and her eyes hold a look of accusation. It takes all my willpower to silently drink my atrocious beverage. Silently is a bit of a stretch for me at the best of times, so I make a lame joke about wanting some gunpowder tea to help with my headache.

"When did you figure it out?," I sigh at last, unnerved that she knows something so intimate about Lisbon. Something which Lisbon all but begged me not to speak about.

Van Pelt returns the sigh and sort of half leans into the machine as if for support.

"At first, I just went with it. With your story, I mean. I just assumed...that what you said was the total truth."

"And? What changed your mind...?"

"A fractured pelvis, you said. One of several injuries. And hearing the specifics - her arm, her head, her pelvis... Well that sounded like _more _than just a robbery gone south. But mostly...I just KNEW - because when I went to give her a hug before saying goodbye yesterday, she went so...rigid. And I could see the bruising on her wrists, and how the skin was abraded. Like someone who has been held down - but also tied up. I mean, we work for the CBI, Jane. We know what abrasions caused by tape or rope look like. And, knowing that, and knowing the reasons behind tying someone up...well, that sounds like something a little more vile than a robbery."

I do my best to push away the ugly thoughts that take up residence in my brain as Van Pelt speaks, and instead take another swig of the beverage, trying not to grimace.

"She could have just been nervous... given everything that happened... don't you think? I mean, she could have still been...robbed. In a sense, she _was_-"

Grace gives me a meaningful look then, and I know she's surprised at my admission. Frankly, I just surprised myself. Of course, Lisbon has been robbed. Robbed of her sense of...safety, peace, self.

"She went totally stiff, Jane...and then looked like she was going to cry. Or throw up. Or both. Just because I touched her? Touched her back? For Lisbon - even if she's not, you know - _huggy_ ...that's still odd. I knew something pretty traumatic happened when she responded like that."

"Getting beaten up so severely in your own home would be traumatic enough..."

Grace stares at me, her eyes tired and sad.

I know she's knows. But I have to be clear on how we are to proceed. If Grace knows the truth - fine.

But I don't want Lisbon to think I've betrayed her trust.

"You know how Lisbon is, Grace - she's not prone to talking about what bothers her. You know how she likes to stay in control. Please don't mention this to the rest of the team."

"Jane, this is something that-"

"_Leave it_, Grace.** Please** - don't put me in the position of discussing an event that I know Lisbon doesn't want me discussing with you...," I pause, gathering my thoughts, before proceeding, "if it helps - she really didn't want to discuss it with me, either. She doesn't want to admit it even happened."

Tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her head, Grace nods, looking resigned.

"That's a big problem, though. Denial isn't going to make this easier for her..."

I nod back, suddenly feeling drained before she adds, "Anyway, I told Rigsby that Lisbon would likely still be...apprehensive...about going back to her apartment. She's feisty, sure - we all know that. But I don't think anyone of us would be looking forward to heading back to a place where something so violent took place."

I attempt one last sip of the putrid drink, then chuck the remaining cup and the liquid therein into the nearest garbage bin.

"No, of course not...," I start, confused. "Just - why are you giving *me* your keys?"

Grace grins again - more warmly now, happy with herself.

"Well, boss shouldn't be alone right now. You know it, I know it. I also know that she choose you to tell...you...to let in. So I thought I'd offer my place. I have a guest room, too. You won't have to sleep on a couch or anything, although I'm sure - given that you're_ you _- that wouldn't stop even if that were the case..."

When I don't say anything - when I _can't_ say anything - Grace takes pity, and adds, smiling, "Don't worry. I trust you not to burn the place to the ground. The cache on my computer is clean by the way, and I don't own a diary - so don't even _bother_."

I try to feign offense, but my heart isn't in the act. I suddenly feel profoundly tired, and the realization that I haven't really slept in several nights...not for any real length of time... is suddenly abundantly clear to my body, if not my mind.

I swipe at my eyes.

"She _does_ trust you, Jane. So I trust you. Simple, right?"

I mutter a sotto thanks while Van Pelt scrawls her address on a post-it yellow sticky, and sticks it to the elephant.

"And you?," I say at long last, feeling some ancient grief rear its head suddenly, for reasons unknown. The situation has stabilized, and suddenly all I feel is unbelievably...stricken.

I clear my throat, try again.

"Where will you stay?"

Grace smiles winsomely.

"Wayne and I are very, very good friends, Jane. He doesn't mind having me as a temporary roomie. Not if it helps Lisbon."

She hands the duffle over to me, and a second set of keys.

"These are Lisbon's...the keys. They're new, I mean. The locksmith gave them to Rigsby. Her place is...done, now, I guess. Physically secure, apparently. But I know..."

She doesn't finish the sentence, and I don't need her too.

"I'll see you guys at work in six weeks, right? We can trade off then. And tell boss...tell her, just...," she flounders for a moment, squints as she tries to formulate something appropriate

This time, I smile.

"Thank you, Grace."

She shrugs, her face contemplative, lost in thought.

"I promise not to burn your apartment to the ground. Scout's honor."

Hopefully I hold up the right hand.

* * *

**A/N: **I have pretty amusing non-luck sometimes. More than two years on the air, and the names of Jane's daughter and wife are never revealed, not as far as I can recall. And then we get a cemetery scene, and catch a glimpse of the headstones - for an Angela and Charlotte Jane on _the same day that I release a story with fan-ascribed names_? *argh* *screams* Oh well, I'm going to discount that for the purposes of this story ;)

For whatever reason, I tend to think (given there was no date-of-birth to date-of-death on either of the tombstones, as far as I could see) that Charlotte would be Jane's daughter. Nothing at all to indicate that she would be the daughter, other than the fact that I can see him picking the name for her. It seems to fit with his almost...elegant quirkiness. Three piece suits, a 1970's Citron, jade coloured teacups and such a precise manner of making tea. Know what I mean?


	4. Chapter 4

**Title - Redress - Chapter 4**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **Sometimes the most innocuous events can signal brutal happenings. Such as a telephone ringing once in the night, and then abruptly stopping. Warnings: for violence and sensitive subject matter.

**A/N:** Caring for someone who has been assaulted is no easy task. Next chapter should be lighter/ less intense.

On the plus side, now knowing the official canon names for Jane's wife and daughter..._well_. You'll notice the corrections, I'm sure. When I have more free time, I'll correct the previous chapters, and reissue altered versions.

* * *

She doesn't ask where we are going.

Not even once.

And I can't believe she'd be so calm if she thought for even a second that I'd be taking her back to her apartment.

Yet she just sits there...looking almost dazed, cloaked in an oversized hoody, and a turtleneck under that... undoubtedly to cover up the bruising around her throat.

I know she's feeling self-conscious, and don't comment on her heavily layered clothes.

"You don't even want to know where we're going?," I test, lightly - my tone not teasing, but easy.

_Safe. _

I don't want Lisbon clamming up on me now. Not when I had to push her to talk. Not when I had to push her to the point of tears, hating myself every second I kept nudging her. Understanding that it was essential. Knowing that the longer she went not talking at all, the harder it would be for her once she finally did.

I didn't want that for her. I didn't want her to run...away from me. Which is completely hypocritical of course, but there you have it.

"Of course, I personally wouldn't mind staying at a Holiday Inn," I try again a second later, when I get absolutely no response.

I'm hoping for a scowl or a mock-death-ray-glare-of-doom.

"I hear the one downtown has water-slides. Plus an ice cream machine! You like ice cream, don't you?"

_'Please do something, Lisbon... Please say something.'_

Something that lets me know that the feisty Lisbon I've come to know and love is... _in there. _Hibernating in that cold, pallid, shell-shocked frame.

"Lisbon?"

She suddenly looks and seems her size. Her petite, vulnerable size. A lack of snark will do that when you're only 5 ft 2, I guess.

_'Please just talk to me, sweetheart'_

Her quietude is unnerving me. It has from the beginning.

"Is there somewhere you'd like to go? Like to stop?"

We are heading into the third day now, and she's still so..._limp_...so numb-seeming. But in the first few hours, and then days...I expected as much. Could fathom that degree of shock. Our experiences may have been vastly different. I suspect the shock we felt...was and is very similar.

"It doesn't matter," she says finally - her voice still sounding scratchy; still laced with that awful, terrible wheeze. From stricture. From having someone - or _someones_, plural - hold their hands around her throat, and squeeze. I force the mental image out - out and away and I take a breath through my mouth, hold to the count of four, exhale to the count of four. It's that, or hit the dash - or the steering wheel. Hit my vehicle until my knuckles bleed. Because I feel totally...indundated by my emotions right now.

Enraged. Vengeful. Aggressive.

_Possessive. Conflicted. Protective._

_Wanting to hold her._

_Wanting to give her space._

_Wanting her to talk._

_Knowing that she needs to talk._

_Not wanting to hear what happened._

_Not wanting her to relive what has happened._

A red-black-grey mess of emotions and pain. And I DO want to hit something. Or someone. Over and over. But I need to reign it in right now before I do more damage. Before I scare Lisbon.

_'She's already scared - whether she'll admit to it or not...'_

Right now...I need to be practical. And calm.

Focused.

"Do you want to stop by a pharmacy...maybe get something for your throat?"

She gives me a look - a brief, fleeting look - like I'm an idiot. I must be insane, because it makes me feel marginally better - that incredulous _'what a moron' _roll of her eyes.

"I guess that's going to take some time healing...but still...we could get some anbesol or something? It might make it easier to swallow?"

I'm not going to start down the mutual..._'let's not talk about it, let's deny this ever happened' _path.

The guys at work - they'll do that.

Lisbon - she'll do that.

I won't indulge her.

Not on this. Not on something so serious.

Avoidance will be worse in the end. Much, much worse.

I know from experience.

_'She doesn't even want to fill her script for sleeping medication. Or for something to help with pain, or with anxiety...'_

I turn and study her briefly while I drive the Citroen a good deal slower than would be typical. I know she doesn't like it when I drive too quickly. She's still quiet - her eyes scanning the roads. I can tell she's counting the yellow lines on the highway. Counting them in her head.

_'She's trying to focus on something else. Anything else. Something overall...meaningless, yet mathematically precise.'_

I attempt to interrupt...softly. Nothing too...jolting.

"Your...place is fixed. Apparently. But Grace didn't think you'd want to head back there right away. She offered us her place until you feel a bit more like yourself."

"You didn't...?," and she's frowning now. Frowning at her lap.

Scared to ask, scared _not_ to ask...

"No...I didn't...say anything. No details. I promise, Lisbon. That's not...," and I pause, unsure of what to say next.

I don't want to say the standard _"that's not my secret to tell" _bit. Because really...how cliche would that be? Never mind the fact that by calling it a _secret..._it leads to the natural thoughts that I must consider what happened to her to be shameful, or dirty. Something she _should_ hide.

"I don't know what Grace knows - or possibly suspects - Lisbon. But I promise you...I didn't say anything to her. No...specifics. I would never betray your trust."

If I could take her hand, and squeeze -_ lightly_ - just to reassure her that I'm telling the truth, that everything is going to be alright...I would do that. I don't do that, though; my instincts are on high alert. I know that as much as **_I _**want to touch Lisbon...hold her, be with her...I better not attempt even the most chaste and platonic of gestures right now. It's not likely to be well received.

Instead I watch her. I watch her pull at the green hoody sleeves with raw, purple tinged fingertips as she tries to edge the hoody material down over her disturbingly bruised wrists.

_'No...she won't deal very well with touches right now. Not now, and not likely for some time.'_

* * *

We pass by a superstore, a Chapters booksellers, a large generic 24-hour pharmacy. Each place reminds me of something I should _do_, something I should _get_, something Lisbon _may need. _When my query fails to raise so much as a muttered sound - intelligible or not - I turn the car into the main lot of the Rite Aid and put it into park. Turning off the ignition suddenly, she turns to look at me.

"Can't we just go...?" and her voice holds something distant and scattered and _not quite here. Not quite...present._

I rub my hands on my knees, suddenly wondering why they feel distinctly damp. I've been married. This shouldn't be so hard.

"Do you need something?," Lisbon tests, obviously questioning why we are here.

Her voice holds a note of being...on edge. Not..._'do you need something, Jane?' _No use of my name. Basics. Bare basics.

And she's still not meeting my eyes.

If I had actually been thinking at all today - I'd have encouraged her primary doctor at the clinic to give us what she might need. The pamphlet Lisbons' shrink had given me earlier explained more than I wanted or needed to know. That wretched brochure. Probably printed sometime in the mid 1980's - all teal lettering, with mustard yellow-orange clashing boxes marking off different sections of the literature. Subject headings as staggeringly real as _Signs of Depression_, and _Flashbacks_ and _National Resources_. Curlicue text, as if by making the font appear just that little bit more feminine...the publishers could take away a bit of the inherent horror of the subject. Which of course...they can't.

_"How to Offer Support When a Loved One is Raped" -_ that conflicting, pretty writing on the front of the literature. I just took the small cream colored brochure with the god-awful teal writing soundlessly from the doctor, read it cover to cover while Lisbon underwent the last of her physical exams.

"No...I don't need anything, really. But I'm thinking maybe..._you_ do?"

Lisbon's arms cross at that. It's a protective gesture.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean,"she starts slowly, her tone incredulous. We both know... that she knows what I'm asking.

She's tugging on her seat belt now - neurotically fiddling with something so she has a paltry excuse not to look at me at all.

_'This shouldn't be so hard.'_

But it is.

"Your doctor told me it's...procedure to give any woman whose been -," I stop, seeing her flinch away from me, and I try to expel the pain in my chest, knowing that if this is hard for me, it's damn hellish for her.

Her cheeks are dusted with rose.

_It's enough. _

I close my eyes.

"You were given an emergency contraceptive at the clinic yesterday, I think. Right?"

_'I think. I think. I think.'_

Like that makes this easy and light. I read the brochure. It was peppered with words that snapped me back to reality faster than a nasty bout of whiplash. Words like _abortifacients_.

Ugly words.

Lisbon is slanted to the right in her car seat. Toward the window, the door. Away from me. She looks like she would rather be anywhere else in the world right now.

And it makes sense. She's intensely private, especially about subjects that she perceives as highlighting some sort of personal _weakness_.

I guess growing up without a mother, in an all-boy family didn't help, either...

_'You should have asked for this stuff at the clinic.__' _

But I had been dazed too, not thinking. And then - later - I couldn't ask Grace, even if it would have been an obvious choice - a logical choice. Because that would have been as good as an admission as to what had truly happened. An emergency contraceptive wouldn't have been provided for a simple robbery. My white-lie would have unravelled immediately.

I just need to say it.

"I can...just run in, run out. Really fast. Get you whatever you need. If you need some sort of... _product_ or...well, you know...?"

I try to meet her eyes. She's trying to avoid mine. And Lisbon doesn't avoid anything, usually. This is a woman who routinely carries two guns on her person, and a third in her car. A woman who can tackle 250 lb suspects with ease, and bring them down to the ground with her petite 105, or 110 lb frame. A woman who usually doesn't seem afraid of anything.

I clear my throat, and when I speak, it's a low thrumming sound.

"I don't know if you _need_ something, Lisbon. But if you think...you might, we should probably get it right now..."

Damn it. I should be better at this sort of stuff. I had a wife. I had a daughter.

"I mean...we're here now..."

_'But this is different...__' _

**_"Lisbon...," _**I stress, my voice dropping to one insistent appeal.

Irrefutably...this is not the same thing as any old awkward conversation with Angela. This is..._trauma._

This reflects a horrific event.

"I don't _need_ anything, Jane."

_Ahh...there is it. _My name. Obviously, she still recalls my name. Good to know.

"Your doctor said that it would start your period," I say quietly, suddenly aware of how highly personal this conversation has become. I try to think of some way to ask, to offer, to help - all without speaking.

"I'm fine."

Like hell she's fine. She looks...furious. Hurt.

Antsy.

And Lisbon's voice is crisp. Snappish.

I know better than to push right now.

I nod, just slightly, to let her know I hear her.

"Well, I'm just going to pick up your scripts then. I'll be...just a few minutes, alright?," and I play it cool, try to get her to relax.

Lisbon looks like she wants to say something... biting. Something along the lines of how she doesn't _'need any damn sleeping pills, either!'_

I can sense her anger. Disproportionate and proportionate, all at once. Of course, by running the errands myself...this serves a double purpose. I can fill Lisbon's scripts, get what might be wise to get...leave everything in the bathroom for her.

_'She'll find it if she needs it.'_

We won't talk about it, to save face. Fine. OK. I can do that.

But by leaving her alone right now - just for a few minutes - it will also give her some time to be alone. To calm down. To deal with her emotions, alone. It's what I know she craves right now.

Maybe not _later_. Maybe not even later_ tonight_. Who knows how she'll feel later?

But_ right now_...I can sense she wants that privacy. Needs it.

I turn the ignition back on, but take my extra spare keys out of the glove compartment before fiddling around with the radio. I finally select a local University radio station, making the decision - knowing I'm most likely just going to get silence if I even try to talk to her right now.

"Good?," and - as expected - silence. From her.

The station, on the other hand, is playing some sort of ambient music. Something dreamy, but not overtly melancholic. Brian Eno, maybe. Something...she can get lost in, but not in a doleful way. Not in a way that will make her feel morose, or lost in thoughts that she might not want to face by herself, alone, right now.

Just calming music. Soothing.

_Perfect._

"I'll be right back, okay?"

I don't know why my mouth wants to add _sweetheart_ to that. It does, and I fight down this new - and forceful - need for connection.

_It's because she's been hurt._

_It's because she's hurting._

But that doesn't mean she'll appreciate treatment that differs from our established routine. More than ever - as hard as it's going to be for me to just pretend that everything is _as it has always been _- our routine is going to be vital. She wants what is predictable right now. What is established...and safe.

Known.

Lisbon nods dully then - nods, but doesn't speak - as her hands dart out, tug on the hoody.

She looks cold.

I mentally add_ hot water bottle _to my list of things to purchase.

* * *

I go to the pharmacy first. I need to be quick. The longer I'm gone, the more anxious Lisbon is going to get. Thankfully, the line is short, and I give the pharmacist the two scripts. One for the anti-anxiety med, one for the sleeping med. I'm informed that I should come back in about 10 minutes, and I'm given a slip for the transaction.

I then go to a couple different aisles, adding random - _possibly needed items _- into the cart: extra strength acetominophin, with a special coating - so that it doesn't hurt her stomach. A bunch of semi-liquidy and easier to consume foodstuffs: cream and broth based soups, pudding cups, cappuccino mix. Stuff that won't hurt her throat. Of course, I don't know her preferences here, so I sort of take a little of everything.

Next - an electric blanket, and a hot water bottle.

I pause at aisle 15, reading the overhanging description of what I'll find - and debating what I'm about to do. Wondering if this is going to cause some sort of argument later. I don't think it should - but Lisbon's obviously not herself right now, and she has a hot temper at the best of time.

And yet, I can take the heat. I know that Lisbon won't likely be able to go out and get these items independently. Not with a broken arm, a swollen throat. Not when she's already doing her best to hide. To shrink. To be..._unseen. _Invisible.

* * *

Angela was always really good about not having me pick up this kind of stuff.

Probably because I was rather pathetic at the task; the one and only time I actually was given the chore...I just chucked whatever I first came across, and drove home quickly.

I recall that my wife bopped me on the head with the package not a minute after I handed her the Kroger's bag.

_...laughing at my stupidity. __Explaining to me that she didn't need Depends, "for god's sake, honey! And here I thought you were smart!" _

_Laughing her good-natured laugh while our daughter popped up in the kitchen out of nowhere, suddenly wanting a **pony-ride, Daddy, **before turning and just staring at the Depends that my wife was still holding._

_Before asking, hopefully, "why does mommy have diapers?" as I bent down and she scrambled up on my back, letting myself become an imaginary pony-slave. _

_And her voice was small and delighted as it filtered down to my ears, her hands tugging at my dress shirt as if the flaps were horse reigns. _

_"No, pony - go LEFT! LEFT!," and she'd squeal in delight as I went right instead - squeal in delight as I purposefully did the very opposite of whatever she asked._

_"Stupid pony! Go left!," and she'd dissolve into giggles. The type of squealing-giggling that adults can** never **do properly. _

_The electric stream of giggles that, I believe, only very little girls can do._

_Especially whilst pretending their fathers are ponies._

_After a few minutes, my head was hurting - a surge of dizziness reminding me that maybe my wife was right, and I shouldn't be so "stubborn" - so I turned left, and Charlotte started in on her next command for me to "giddy up! GIDDY UP PONY!," while I ran on all fours into the living room, finally out of breath, dragging myself to the couch._

_Lifting her off my back, she complained, "awww, no! DADDY!"_

_Reprimanding me for getting tired, the little elf!_

_"PONY is TIRED, Charley-bean."_

_And a second later, cross-legged from the floor, the subject changed again._

_"Daddy...**when **am I getting my baby brother?," to which Angela snorted, an undignified, "hey, that'll be the day... I need a mini-version of your father like I need a hole in the head!" under her breath. _

_And Charlotte - always listening, ALWAYS figuring stuff out, even at five years old...scolding me now._

_"Daddy! You said you'd ask Mommy about my baby."_

_Always "her baby." _

_"Naaaaay," I belted out, "whhhhoooose DAAADeeee?," not really wanting to answer her question, and much more willing to remain a pony since my wife was doing absolutely nothing to help me out._

_And Charley laughed then, kicked at me with her tricky little feet while I gasped, hollering out, "PONY ABUSE! Stop!"_

_"Gently, monkey!," my wife scolded from the kitchen, though not unkindly, "we don't want to break Daddy's ribs, do we?"_

_"Thanks for the concern," I muttered with a smile as she came into the family room then, carrying a blue pot of pasta, while I continued to rub at a sore patch near my ribs._

_"I think we should sign you up for soccer, Charlotte. Then you can kick soccer balls, and not defenseless ponies!," and I made a pass for the TV guide, quickly thinking of putting on some sort of cartoon. Something to get me out of pony-duty for a little while. Or something to stop my daughters incessant inquiries as to when "her baby" would be coming._

_But I should have known better..._

_"So daddy...is he coming?," and those hazel eyes had studied me with great seriousness, mouth gently holding onto the prospect of success, a smile almost in place - just in case she liked my response._

_Those...dimples cutting into soft, rounded baby fat._

_Apparently I was a father again, and not a pony._

_"Is **who** coming? You really need to be specific when you ask questions, young lady. Remember when we talked about the importance of specificity in effective oral communication?"_

_Oh, truly - this game was old. _

_Our daughter would ask me when her little brother would be coming, and I would pretend I had no idea what she was talking about, while talking over her head._

_"Daddy!," she laughed, smacking me on the hand, the smack holding just enough power to string. "Stop being so ...an..an-annoying! Is that...sec...sepicific enough for you?"_

_I tried not to laugh at the bastardized way my little girl pronounced the new word._

_"Sepicific? What's that?," and this time I **did** laugh, so my wife finally put down her fork, a warning in her tone as she told me to "stop being such a pest, Patrick." _

_"Dearest! Do you call me "annoying" when I'm not around?," I quipped back to her suddenly, while Charlotte nodded her head frantically, biting her lip as I faked outrage at this "travesty of a marriage!"_

_I picked Charley up then, settling in on the couch besides Angela - who tried to grab for the remote, while I fake-scowled back at my wife. _

_I finally handed the remote over to our daughter instead. _

_"Oh, if you think I'm giving YOU the remote, woman - the nerve! After you call me annoying behind my back!" but my grin is still in place when I leaned into Angela, getting comfortable. _

_"You're my nice and squishy wife-water bottle!" I muttered, loving the feeling as my wife's hands came up to my head, stroked my hair. I smiled in the darkened room._

_"Nice and squishy and warm," I muttered again to my wife, although that time it was stupidly loud enough for Charlotte to hear._

_Two seconds later the little imp stood up, a glint in her eyes suddenly making me nervous. __With due cause._

_Because in the next moment she laughed and jumped down forcefully on my stomach, effectively knocking the wind out of me._

_It's a good thing I hadn't already started eating dinner._

_"You are nice and squishy too, Daddy!", she squealed, before she rose back up - ready to jump back down on me again. _

_I remember that I kicked myself for giving her the idea, and __gently reached for her wrists, finally pulling her down where she sat cross-legged between my lap. And Angela weaseled her way out from behind me - just enough to fix a plate of pasta and salad for Charlotte in her little Bunnkins bowl._

_"Here sweets. Dinner," and my daughter took the bowl, stared at it with disinterest._

_And outted-me. _

_The little traitor._

_"But Daddy and me had chocolate and strawberry ice-creams already, Mommy!"_

_"Oh really?," and the voice was amused, though the hands stopped stroking my hair. Fingers lightly tapped against my skull. **Tap, tap, tap.**_

_"Yes, with chocolate sauce and sprinkles and whipped cream and-"_

_I made a slicing motion with my hand over my throat - our mutual "shut up, shut up!" gesture._

_My wife - always pretty easy going though - simply sighed, put the bowl of (actual nutritious) food back down._

_"No more ice-cream before dinner, you goof."_

_I nodded against her, silent, then flipped through the tv channels. _

_"So my, pretties...can we all agree on a movie tonight? Oh look, Angie," I paused, catching the entry in TV guide, "do you want to watch Toy Story? "The claaaaaw. The clawww is our masssster! The claw decides who will go and who will staaaaaay!""_

_

* * *

_

_When the movie ends, Charlotte gets back to task._

_And for all her patience she's now starting to scowl. It doesn't suit her._

_"Keep that up...and your face will freeze all gruesome-like, Charley-bean! You'll look like one of those little green aliens! "The CLLLLLAW""_

_"STUPID PONY," Charlotte laughs, not able to keep the scowl in place, and I feel her tiny hands come to grip my hair, pulling on one curl. "Answer me pony! I beg of you!"_

_"Apparently, she's inherited my flair for the dramatic, Angela. I'm so proud!"_

_My wife mutters something then about "this" being why we don't "give little girls neopolitans for dinner."_

_But - a gracious woman, my wife - she decides to take pity on the pony-kicker, despite my protests to "not give in! do not give in!" as our little girl continues to pull on my hair. _

_"There's no baby coming right now, Charlotte. And quick hitting Daddy, young lady. We don't smack in this house, do we?," though my wife bites back a grin as she whispers in my ear, "not even when the stupid pony deserves it!"_

_"Oh. Nice. Real nice, woman," I whisper back, while our over-sugared rugrat finally sits up, looking __terribly dissapointed._

_I almost felt badly. _

_"So really? No baby?"_

_Man - this kid's stubborn!_

_"Nope. Not yet," and __I wink at my wife exaggeratedly while she smacks me with a sofa cushion._

_"Well, DADDY," and the small voice is now sceptical - logical, "if I'm not getting my baby...why did you get Mommy diapers?"_

_Me - about to respond. My wife - cutting me off, sly smile on her face._

_"Daddy just can't read very well yet, sweetie," Angela had said at last - triumphant smile in place._

_Our daughter - taking the words to heart - suddenly looked saddened._

_Saddened and** supportive **- and she promptly shepherded me over to the coffee table, and scouraged around for her Sesame Street DVD's. __I can still recall her pudgy little hand coming to rest overtop my own. Giving that light, gentle squeeze. So very...mature, in some ways. When trying to console someone who she thought was upset. Those b__ig hazel eyes, bouncing ringlets, and severe expression._

_"It's okay, Daddy. I will help. I can read well. I can help you."_

_Innocence and enthusiasm and a look that made me bite my lip so I didn't actually laugh out loud and offend her. And then Charley s__cattered her letter blocks and asked me questions. About everything. Including** when **she'd have her baby brother._

_"You're sure stubborn, kiddo. You get that from your mother, don't you?"_

_And Angela, from the couch, snorting. "Yeah right, Pat. She gets that from *me*. I'm sure."_

_Charlotte - pleading her case now._

_"But I will help you take care of him! I promise! And I will share my strawberry shampoo, too."_

_Strawberry shampoo - the only type she'd ever use. The bottle painted in red and yellow and pink balloons. Monkeys swinging from the balloon strings. Shampoo from the salon, for what my wife called "ridiculously spoiled children."_

_[And when I said that "it was good stuff", the strawberry scent like strawberry shortcake, and how I'd use it myself if Charlotte would ever let me, Angela had turned and smirked, with an "I rest my case" spilling from her lips, while I stuck out my tongue at her. Probably not doing much to redeem myself, truthfully. __But how could we spoil Charlotte? Truly? With that little voice, high pitched and spite-like and always, always loving?]_

_"We can feed him peaches like Tiko, right Daddy?"_

___Tiko - her playmate's box tortoise, who ate peaches with the same fervor that my daughter ate fruit loops. Especially the pink and purple ones._

_"Oh sure, we can feed him peaches, Charley-bean! Peaches, apple pie, co-co crisps! Whatever he wants!" and Charlotte laughed, clapped her hands together excitedly, while my wife groaned from her position on the couch in feigned-horror, saying something loud - in warning. Something like, "don't you give her any more ideas, you monster!"_

_So this time... I mimicked my daughters pout, and sta__rted in with the insistent questions of when we'd finally have our little boy._

_Whispers then. Conspiratorial._

_A small tug on my pant leg._

_"Maybe you can just bring me home my baby, Daddy? Bring him home and tell Mommy, later?"_

_Always "her baby." Always._

_Another snort from the couch._

_Obviously I needed to train this kid to be...stealth._

_"Uhh, Charley-bean...remember how we talked about this the other day? How the baby has to grow inside Mommy?"_

_She nodded her head, her features scrunching up, still confused about the process - which was understandable, since I totally glossed over that issue last time._

_"For my birthday, then? PLEASE?"_

_Her birthday was three months away, so I shared a look with my wife, who held up her hands in a 'don't put this on me!' gesture._

_"Pumpkin...a baby will __take awhile to grow in Mommy, and won't be ready by your birthday...He'll only be," and I did some quick mental math, "one third ready by then, sweetie."_

_"Aren't you the eternal optimist, Pat," and my wife was grinning at me again, not unlike the cat who ate the canary. __And our daughter, indignant. A huff._

_Followed by...bartering. Actual bartering._

_"Well...can't he just come a little sooner? I don't care if he's small! You can make him small if you want!"_

_I remember trying not to laugh - __Angela too, I take it - the look on her face priceless, her__ eyes twinkling merrily._

_"__Oh sweetheart, you know how bad Daddy is at making things. I don't think he'll get too far by your birthday, sweets."_

_An indignant pout again - from **me** this time._

_"Why are you so mean to me, woman? Do I not buy your beloved mushroom Ragu? Do I not make an exceptionally good pony for our daughter?"_

_My smile turned wicked._

_"Or is this just because I didn't get you your fancy woman products?"_

_"Aren't you a laugh riot. The fancy ones? You didn't even get the right ones!," Angela crowed._

_Because seriously - nothing phased the woman by that point. _

_More pant tugging._

_"Can you just... start on him by my birthday, Daddy?"_

_As if a baby brother was a sculpture. Something I'd be hand-fashioning._

_I ignored Angela as she ate the last of her linguine [the world's slowest eater, I always called her] and then loudly spoke to our daughter with an innocent: "I'll try, Charley. I'll try really hard to make you a brother for your birthday." _

_"Good luck with that, Patrick," Angela muttered then, her mouth quirking into an amused smile as she __eyed the scattered alphabet blocks, the words I had oh-so-randomly spelled out on the carpeting._

_Words like "Baby" and "Brother"._

_Words like "Names?" and "__Jacob?" _

_So she rised from the couch, reached into the brown bag of plastic linking-letters._

_Upside down, I tried to read her message as I stole a couple strands of linguine from her bowl, slurping messily to make Charley laugh while my wife half-heartedly warned me not to get tomato sauce on the rug._

_When she was finished, she removed her hands, let me read the words aloud, which I did._

_"**'Keep dreaming g**__**oofball'**...? Oh that's not very nice, my dear! Is it so wrong that I want to balance out our little family with a boy?" _

_And Angela shrugged her shoulders, then gave me a more serious look, eyeing Charlotte._

_"Well, what if we have another girl?," and suddenly thoughtful, she nudged Charley with her leg, "hey Charley-bean, does it **have** to be a brother? Would a baby sister be okay?"_

_Charlotte's lips pursed then, her eyes staring off as if she was contemplating advanced calculus. _

_"No," she announced regally a few moments later, "no, I really just want a baby brother."_

_A big grin then, my face feeling swollen with it - enjoying having my own mini-imp to bug Angela with..._

_And perfectly enough...I had just enough vowels left to write my witty comeback: 'If at first you don't succeed. Try, try again.'_

_Angela smacked me upside the head for real then, while I let out a strangled yelp-laugh, surprised._

_

* * *

_

A young woman in her early twenties or so comes by, reaches for something hastily, stares at me a little oddly...probably wondering what I'm doing just hovering in the middle of the aisle, frozen and out of place.

"Do you mind?," she asks, an aggravated little frown on her face. And it's then that I realize I've been actually** staring **at her...trying to see what she selects.

_"What sound does this letter make, Daddy? S...ssssss."_

_"It's an...A?," and I would play the fool, just to see that firm expression, gently reprimanding me to, "pay attention, daddy! Listen...SSSssss!"_

_Cheering when I got her questions right._

Charlotte would be 13 now.

_13..._

I realize that I'm still frozen in line. That the woman is still staring at me, indignant.

_"Sorry," _I mutter. Thinking quickly. "Ummm, I didn't mean to stare," I recover quickly, "Uhh...my daughter...she's 13...," and I trail off, a voice in the back of my mind telling me that I should be alarmed with how quickly I'm able to just...lie. Lie about **_her._**

The young woman navigates her cart around mine, and gives me a look of profound sympathy and renewed understanding while I stand there, probably looking every bit the out-of-place dad.

The quintessential unsure father dealing with a pubescent daughter.

"You probably should just stick to...," her hand roughly glosses over a bottom row, where I see an army of blue plastic coated parcels. Little pillow parcels, white lettering, birds on front, and something about wings that I don't fully understand. "that row then. I'd skip everything else as she's still so young..."

I mutter a thank you, chuck in several quantities of the recommended products, then depart hastily before finally heading to a small grocery lane and adding some boxes of tea, some bags of Melita coffee. I then head back to pick up the scripts - knowing that I'm stalling. Trying to think of a way to take the discomfort out of everything for Lisbon.

* * *

When I get back to the car, I find Lisbon cat-napping, her head jerking up in alarm as she wakes from the groggiest of mini-sleeps when I open my door, and get in.

_"Shssh_...it's alright. You're okay. It's just me," I mutter, watching her for a moment before tying the pharmacy bag at the top and putting it in the backseat. I then root around in the second bag of foods and condiments, and pull out a Rockstar Coffee drink - _Light Mocca_, it reads.

I've seen Lisbon drink them. A lot.

And the way she was blinking against the light earlier as we drove, never mind the slight tremor of her hands... I wouldn't be surprised if she has a mammoth caffeine withdrawal headache.

Especially given the amount of coffee I know she drinks every day having been interrupted, that is.

And though I don't want to enable her coffee habit, I also know my protests and suggestions that she cut back will fall on deaf ears.

"Thirsty?," and I proffer the beverage in a way - a manner - that I hope comes across as relaxed. Casual.

Something that belies the terrible anxiety I am feeling for her right now.

I see one eye open slowly at my question, slowing exposing the intense emerald green within.

Lisbon catches sight of the beverage within nanoseconds, and then suddenly she's sitting up a little straighter in her chair.

I do my best not to smile at her undying eagerness to consume coffee drinks.

"Thanks," she says briefly, as I hand off the drink, and she pops the tab. "I have a bad headache. Stupid nurses and stupid rules," I hear her rant under her breath.

I nod, false sympathy as I speak next, "Oh, don't I know it. Those aggravating nurses and their ridiculous ideas about healing patients not having access to liters and liters of coffee. Really, I mean - what coffee nazis!"

And there we have it: the reduction of anxiety.

Just slightly.

Just enough to allow a small smile to touch the corners of her mouth, Lisbon's slurpy sipping only briefly paused before she nods, then takes a larger gulp.

She swallows the coffee, then turns the radio station to something a little more intense, raucous.

And that's how we drive to Grace's - Lisbon, counting yellow road dashes, huddled in excessive layers, taking steady sips of coffee, and me...driving as tidily as possible, my thoughts caught up in reminiscing about the people I care about...

..._past and present._


	5. Chapter 5

**Title - Redress - Chapter 5**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **Sometimes the most innocuous events can signal brutal happenings. Such as a telephone ringing once in the night, and then abruptly stopping. Warnings: for violence and sensitive subject matter.

**A/N:** **Ingz** - yes, I personally know a good deal about the subject matter herein.

I guess, I see so many stories dealing with rape, and only a handful seem to give an authentic time-line of how someone trying to overcome being assaulted would cope/ grieve/ recover.

So many stories have the character brought down to this low point and then recovering in a very, very unrealistic time-frame. Usually way too quickly, but also...emotionally... There are good days and bad days. It's far less...predictable. Many individuals - if attacked by a stranger (which is overall far rarer than being sexually assaulted by a family member, by the way) are also attacked in a much more violent fashion. If someone is attacked by a stranger that has also broken into their residence...there is usually some form of physical coercion - such as being threatened at knife point/ gun point/ threatened with severe bodily harm or death if the victim so much as tries to get away/ yell/ physically resist.

In some ways, I think _THAT _aspect of recovery is hardest for many people [the self-blame/ recrimination when they don't fight back as much as they_ think _they possibly could have].

I think that can cause a_ lot of problems _long-term because... those that are victimized will also then battle with this truly unfair worry that somehow they are not completely...innocent.

And I think that really messes with the mind, and the emotions.

* * *

When we get to Grace's building, I re-read over the small slip of paper - the sticky note - that I had originally put in my vest pocket.

_Space 33_, it reads.

I eye the lot for the space.

"Do you see lot 33, huh?," and I nudge Lisbon tenderly with my shoulder. She looks up... reluctantly - still fatigued by the medication they gave her this morning.

And even though I've caught sight of the space already, I still turn to her now - expectant. Wanting her to catch sight of it, too - and assist.

Lisbon...with her typical speedy responses.

"There...," she says a couple moments later, using her cast to 'point' to a rather large region of space, before putting the empty Rockstar tin can in the beverage holder compartment.

I park the car in Grace's spot, go around to Lisbon's side to help her with the door and then reach down to pick up her duffel bag.

Her hands - or, her one uncasted arm, I should say - is still gripping the bag protectively, and it takes her a second to realize that I plan on carrying it for her.

"I can carry it."

_'I can do it. I can do it!'_

I know in the most immediate flash of time and space...just how Lisbon would have been as a little kid.

The sort of little kid where you'd teach her something, and two seconds later, she'd be stepping in.

_'I can do it!'_

I find myself staring at her cast, and clear my throat.

"So can I," I say pleasantly, before I take it from her gingerly - the look on my face patient but firm.

"You shouldn't be lifting anything too heavy with a busted arm, Lisbon," I add, when she looks like she might argue. "The bone needs to have minimal pressure."

"**_Fiiine_**," she grounds out, and I know she feels like everyone is hovering, and as if everything normal and typical and safe has been taken away.

_Her independence. Her sense of security. Her privacy._

With my other hand, I reach for the two bags of groceries and items purchased from the pharmacy, but not before I lightly place the elephant keychain in Lisbon's hand.

"You can be the official key holder and door unlocker-er," and I smile at her spiked eyebrow, the low, grumbly, "Oh _GOODY_!" still flowing with expert Lisbon-sarcasm and rancor.

"But it's a very important role, my dear. Without an official door unlocker-er, we'd be stuck out in the hall for ages, dying of thirst, lingering about like flies stuck to a honey trap..."

She just blinks, tries not to laugh. Finally coughs on her laughter instead.

"Where do you get this shit from?"

I try to portray a sense of deep and mighty woundedness as we enter the front doors of the building and wait for the elevator.

"'_Shit?' _Aww shucks - that's not a very nice way to speak to me, Teresa."

Her eyes blink, like she's been slapped.

"Swears sound totally obscene coming from your mouth, Jane."

I smile innocently.

"I think it's the whole...prissy aspect," she says with a quirky grin not a beat later, her good arm indicating to my three piece suit, resting on my vest.

"_Prissy?_ Fuck, that's not fair! I'm not prissy."

She slaps me with her good hand, her eyes going even wider - as if I've grown a second head.

"Uggh. No...seriously, I'm sorry. I take it back. Just don't swear. It's **_strange_**."

"Just keeping you on your toes, my love."

She steps back, a little unsure. With my swearing, or my term of endearment for her - I'm not quite sure.

"Cut it out, Jane! I've learned my lesson, see? I will only talk..."nicely" to you from now on."

Checking the paper again, I nip into my lower lip to keep from smiling. Happy that - _at least for now _- we are back to a bit of our established bantering routine.

* * *

I announce our destination while we wait for the elevator.

"We are on floor**_ 11_**," I say with overt nonchalance, while I keep the door open with my foot - pulling all necessary items inside.

1...2...3...4...

_7...8...9..._

"I hope Grace's apartment doesn't have those ridiculously huge windows," I add, completely out of the blue.

Lisbon glances towards me, keys still dangling from those terribly bruised hands.

I look away.

We'll deal with that issue later.

"Are you afraid of heights or something?," she asks, voice gruff.

"Hey!...No need to tease! The 11th floor...it's sort of high up..."

And Lisbon nods her head in a _'uhhh, sure...I really believe you'_ gesture.

Of course, I'm not really _afraid_ of heights at all. I just want to introduce early on...the subconscious suggestion that by being so elevated, so high up in the building - we will be rather well protected.

Isolated.

Segregated from outside intruders. It's not as if there's likely to be a fire escape going up to Grace's suite, after all.

Whereas Lisbon's place was on the third floor - and would have had many more entrances, potentially. It was an...easier to _break into _building.

But if I say something to the point, something akin to_ "you will be safe here, Lisbon. There's no reason to be afraid"_ - I know I'm going to get an irked response. A...protest that I'm wrong. That she's not afraid.

That's she's not afraid of anything.

* * *

We finally get to Grace's floor, the walls an almost coffee brown - dark and deep, like woodlands in later day, before the sun sets.

The hallway leading to the suite is also decked out in long, elegant windows that allow for such sufficient light that the condo board, or whoever is in charge, really - has pleasantly peppered the place with large ficus plants.

As we approach Graces' apartment door, I can see that the front is decked out in a rather beautiful Yule wreath. One using actual preserved evergreen boughs, and real dark cherry-red berries.

It's rather lovely.

And very much the type of adornment I am not at all surprised to find on the front door of Grace Van Pelt's condo.

"Festive," I say aloud, before sniffing the branches much to Lisbon's amusement. She then fiddles around with the silver keys in the lock - harder to do with just the one good arm - and finally turns the latch with her uninjured hand. The other arm hangs limply at her side like a useless appendage, forgotten.

When we get inside, I notice a few things immediately.

The place is warm - almost a perfect temperature.

It's...very cozily decorated, and rather serene, with flowing blinds that cut out harsh light. There are a multitude of hanging plants and a general...ease and peace that suddenly make ME feel very sleepy.

And it's very, very yummily scented. I smile at that realization, the sensoral hedonist in me pleasantly surprised. I'm quite taken with how_ inviting _everything feels from the moment I step inside.

My mind flashes back to the first time I met Grace, and I realize...inviting...encouraging...that's how she's always been.

* * *

_Hands gripping coffee - a coffee cup! Because I'm so tired. _

_Having walked needlessly around from that stupid cactus plant on the highway after Lisbon kicked me out of the van and sped off in a huff._

_Of course, part of that was my own stupidity. _

_And I kicked myself right after, but continued on... walking the long 11 miles to the airport, where I was finally able to take a shuttle back to the CBI offices._

_"Good morning!," I chirp to a new face. _

_A long, lean woman - maybe mid-to-late 20's watches me. _

_"Can I help you?," warm, helpful tone. _

_Red hair secured in an elegant pony tail, black hair tie. _

_Pearl earrings, flower blouse cutting slightly over top of a more CBI-approved black blazer._

_Realization floods me._

_"You must be *Van Pelt*."_

_Elegant and feminine. An Audrey Hepburn to Lisbon's...Kate. I try not to snort._

_A demure nod of her head then, still not completely sure of who I am and how I know who she is. _

_And Lisbon?..._

_Lisbon still sits at her desk, hair shorter and straighter back then. _

_Just an easy-to-manage bob...stopping bluntly at her chin. _

_More tomboyish then, wearing practically no makeup. _

_On that day...Lisbon was wearing a wine-red shirt rolled up to her tiny elbows._

_Making chicken-scratch notes on old cold case files._

_All while pretending to be completely oblivious to my presence._

_"Pleasure! Patrick Jane," I say to the more softer and - obviously sweeter - of the two females in the room._

_I reach out and offer Grace my hand, which she takes with a knowing smile, suddenly at ease._

_"Oh HI! Good to meet you! Agent Cho said you had left town...," the voice still just as warm, despite the slight confusion lacing her tone._

_I glance over at Lisbon, give her a slight stare, before I mutter in a put-on-lost-and-forsaken voice, "No...no...**nowhere** to go." _

_I see raven locks shake in disbelief at my words._

_And I catch the expulsion of breath, the annoyed and rigid body posturing of our pint-sized boss._

_"Ok," Van Pelt says suddenly, her eyes fluttering over to Lisbon's desk, seeing what's happening._

_Trying to gloss over the residual tension in the room, she suddenly shifts into helper-elf-mode._

_"Do you want...that desk over there? Or...this one? I mean...that one gets more light?"_

_"That one," I say with a wide grin, nodding in immediate agreement with Grace's recommendation. _

_"More light. By all means," and I try to give her my most charming smile. _

_Partly because she deserves it for being so sweet._

_But **mostly **because I know it will bug the hell out of Lisbon._

_Tapping my fingers lightly against my coffee cup, I walk languidly by Lisbon's desk, where she suddenly begins writing with even greater fervor..._

_... as if she was oh-so-completely unaware of the recent transaction that just occurred..._

_...not even 15 feet away from her desk._

_"Very PLEASANT addition to the Serious Crimes family, " I say pointedly as I pass by her, taking an odd delight in riling her up._

_I'm rewarded with a slight scowl before she schools her face into something...neutral-ish._

_"Oh. Hi. When did you get here?," Lisbon asks softly, looking at me as if I've surprised her by speaking._

_I bite down on my lip and keep walking towards my newly appointed desk._

_

* * *

_

"It smells like cookies in here!," I say suddenly, and present-day-Lisbon smiles, before trying to hang the keys up on a little bolted key-holder by the door.

"I think that's probably just...scented candles or something."

Which of course is the case. But they are also_ the most delicious smelling things _I've ever smelled in my life.

I drop the bags and the duffel, and quickly make my way over to the living room table, suddenly really, really glad that Grace was so generous as to allow us to stay here.

The place is almost...drowsily comforting. Serene, truly - with its buttercup yellow walls, painted in only in the lightest splash of colour.

I go by the coat rack and study framed prints of interesting looking x-rayed plants.

"_Flower spirits_, they're called here," I breathe out to Lisbon, while reading the descriptions on the prints. "Oh wow. Look Lisbon. This is what a hydrangea looks like if you x-ray it from the inside out. Isn't that cool?"

Turning, I can see Lisbon trying to re-shoulder her bag.

"_Fascinating_..."

She undoubtedly wants to put her stuff away, get changed, because she's already taken to opening up the black bag, and is now rooting around, as if determining what's been packed.

And she's still shaking, as if cold.

Cold...despite her many layers of clothing.

"You look...chilled," I test gently. "Are you still cold?"

Lisbon bites her lip, as if considering how to respond.

"Maybe a little," and then she's quiet again, while I grab one latch of the duffel - she, the other - and the two of us sort of walk the bag down the hall, together.

Pushing lightly on a cherry-wood door, I can tell when we get to Grace's room.

For starters, the bed is impeccably made.

Having a football coach for a father is probably, in some regards, a lot like having an _army Sargent _for a dad. Because the room is pin-tidy-neat. And it smells like lavender.

I'm not surprised that Grace is totally smitten with the proposed healing powers of aromatherapy. It totally fits with her overall personality.

It totally fits with someone who would have flower spirit portraiture on her walls, take yoga classes, and eat hummous with such... enthusiastic regularity.

"_**Ha! **_You get the room that smells like flowers. And **_I_** get the room that smells like cookies," I state obnoxiously, as if the cookie-scented-room is obviously...so much_ better._

Lisbon drops to the bed, holding the duffel close, viewing her surroundings tentatively.

"Do you need any-?"

She shakes her head.

No.

But she looks like she has a question.

And she does - for a second later she speaks.

_"Why am I still so tired?," _she breaths out against her hoody-pouched little lap.

The question is...revealing, and open...

A chink in the armor.

And all I can think of, then, is the fact that she was bound for four hours, minimally.

Beaten and raped and bound for four hours.

How tired would she be, after something that traumatic?

Not knowing if she would live or die.

Not knowing what would happen _next._

Having to sublimate the horror of the moment, the horror of the action...just to survive.

I sit down besides her on the bed, and let my hands reach over for her own. One goes to wrap around her shoulder, instinctively - to warm her, or just to touch her, I'm not sure myself.

To know she's here - now - and safe - _now_. In this instant.

I give her the barest side-hug, and then let my right hand drop down to her lap where I...slowly, unhurriedly, reach for the left arm, her left hand. I grasp it in my own, just barely. Just enough so that I can stroke the cool, white skin.

And I push away a burgeoning anxiety when I feel her go rigid against me. Console myself with the idea that she hasn't...shoved me away yet. Hasn't told me to get lost. Isn't completely rejecting overtures of...help, of assistance.

She's quiet for an impossibly long time, and I know I'm not going to be the first one to talk.

That _she_ needs to be the first one to talk.

And then she does.

"What's _wrong _with me, Jane?"

The voice so small, so light...so uncharacteristic of her and of her general personality that I have to play the words over in my mind several times before I can get over my...shock.

Before I can respond.

I clear my throat, something sore coming to wrap around my vocal cords.

"There's absolutely NOTHING wrong with you, Teresa," and I shake her lightly, still seated by her side.

She still seems stiff, and a low and deep suspicion comes to mind.

"Am I scaring you, Lisbon? Right now... by touching you?," and I immediately take my arm away from her shoulder, her side - though I continue to hold her hand.

"Is that what you mean?," I try again, when she looks conflicted. As if she wants to speak, but doesn't know what to say.

_**Bingo.**_

"I know you won't hurt me," she says, just as quietly as before. Warm breath, hushed sounds, whispered sounds, no real volume.

Not when she doesn't want to admit to why she's scared right now.

I nod resolutely, my hand on hers now so bare and easy that I know she can pull back immediately if that's what she wants to do.

"No. I will** never **hurt you," I assert, keeping all my pain and anger out of my voice. Hopefully.

After all, I'm not angry at her.

I'm angry that she's been made to feel so terrified, so unsure...that I can't even touch her.

"I know that," she says, her face suddenly contorting into a look, an emotion that I can't quite place.

I see her beat her hands against her lap - just as she did on that first horrible day in the ER - while she tries to take control of the whirlwind of emotions scattered throughout her heart.

"But you're confused," I add finally, "Because you know..._intellectually_...that I'd never touch you in that violent way."

She pulls her broken arm into her lap, stares at it dumbly - as if she just has realized that, indeed, she has a cast - and can't fathom why.

"But your..._body_...doesn't seem to know that, does it? Your body doesn't seem like your own, anymore, right?"

She finally nods, blinks back tears.

"Do you feel...unreal? Because if you do, that could be shock."

"It's...I can't_...feel_...anything, Jane. It feels like...my mind is in someone else's body," and this time she does hit her lap. _"I'm not making any sense..."_

Her green eyes come up to mine, and she exhales a very, very bent up breath.

"That's...normal, Lisbon. If you've been hurt physically, you want to stay in your...mind. Because that will feel safe."

"It's...," she stops, restarts, "my heart won't _slow down_. I feel like I've been..."

Her hand comes up in the air, as if she maybe she can grasp onto an idea, a word, a way of...explaining the unexplainable.

As if she can choose just the right word - the very RIGHT word - she can make sense of something that will never -_ can never _- make sense.

"It's...I'm scared **_now_**."

It's an odd thing to say.

_Of course_ she's scared.

"Anyone would be scared, Lisbon," I try to offer, reassuringly.

She shakes her head, suddenly meeting my eyes.

"No. I - I mean...I feel afraid right now, and I don't think I even felt scared **_then_**."

I doubt that very much.

I'm certain she was very, very scared at the time.

I'm certain that she was...terrified.

"Maybe it was too much fear? Maybe...you couldn't understand it...recognize it as fear, because it was too strong?"

My mind tugs at the brochure. The yellow and teal letters. I reach out with mental fingertips, turns a page.

_Why do I feel so lost? So ineffectual?_

"I feel like I've been electrocuted," she whispers, her eyes scrunching up, frustrated with the difficulty she is having in expressing what she's experiencing.

I nod, just slightly.

"But that doesn't make _sense._ Believe me, Jane - that doesn't make sense. Not for me."

"In what way?," and I continue to stroke her hand. Continue to keep her in the present.

She wraps the hoody around herself, as if it's a protective blanket. A shield.

Her eyes fall from their lock on my own, and come to rest on Grace's white-laced duvet cover.

"After my mom died, and my dad started drinking...he...he was mean. Really _mean_. All the time."

I get it.

Suddenly and sickly - all my lingering doubts, confirmed.

_Mean_ is Lisbon's way of admitting that she was abused as a child.

She catches my gaze, and looks down ashamed.

"Don't..._look_ at me like that, Jane. It wasn't something _perverse_ or anything...," she stops suddenly.

I try to push down my alarm - at her defense of someone - even if it was her own father - who would knowingly hurt a child.

"He _abused_ you, Lisbon. Your Dad. How can you...defend that? Justify that?"

Lisbon lets out a scoffed sound. An aggrieved sound.

I'm suddenly scared _myself._

Scared by how...badly in denial Lisbon has been living her life.

_Trying to convince herself that she's strong if she can endure physical pain._

_Strong if she can keep from crying._

_Strong if she can convince herself...that she doesn't feel pain._

I'm not surprised that she feels numb.

She's been deliberately trying to numb herself for a long time now.

"It could have been worse - a lot worse. Some little kids get molested. He just hit me."

Just?

He...**just**...hit her?

"I...it wasn't_...incestuous_ or anything," and her voice drops away to nothing.

Her words are tentative, as if she knows that I might get upset.

Which I **_do._**

I suddenly want to shake her. I know she doesn't really...believe what she's saying.

Does she?

"You think...because your father didn't have _sex_ with you, that makes it okay?"

I know the words will...impact her. And they do: she goes pale, and I remind myself to ease off. Just a little.

I just can't fathom her defense. It's making me upset. Frustrated.

"Not _okay_," she starts, pulling away from me, "just...better, maybe."

I want her to see just how truly**_ wrong _**all of this is...

"You're right. A father that makes you bleed is so much better. _That's _certainly not a betrayal in the slightest. _That _certainly doesn't do long term damage to a little girl!"

The words seem to tumble from my mouth all on their own.

"I'm sorry, Lisbon. I didn't mean...to say all of that. I'm not...angry with you."

I stop, take a deep breath.

"But I think you are...in denial here..."

Her voice is laced with a flutter of something tremulous then; a building anxiety.

I need to stop this.

Now.

She's getting upset.

"Me? I'M in denial? _Me?"_

Tears, impending.

"He hit me with a_ belt_, Jane. And maybe he hit me a little too hard sometimes, but lots of kids get hit with belts."

And a renewed sickness fills my guts.

I want to stop asking questions.

I want to stop, but I know I can't _afford_ to stop.

"A little too hard? What does _that_ mean?," and I watch her posture go strict, like a board.

Suddenly, her assertion that she shouldn't feel numb..."just" because she's been violated physically...makes a horrendous sort of sense.

"Did he ever hit you so hard that you had to go to the hospital?"

She sits up rapidly, and I can see that she's mentally berating herself now.

"Did he ever break a bone?"

She...winces, her shoulder pulling inwards. Protective. Her eyes scatter about like a timid animal searching for a safe place to hide.

**_I guess I have my answer, there._**

"I shouldn't have told you. I shouldn't have... It doesn't...," and she's talking to herself now, pacing.

"Have you ever told anyone else this before, Lisbon?"

My voice is back to...controlled.

She gets up with renewed determination.

"It...doesn't matter Jane..."

I feel awful.

"Of COURSE it matters," I say softly.

This did not go as planned.

I wanted to make her feel better.

_Safe._

She doesn't say anything.

Just stares at the carpet, breathing heavily.

"Lisbon...I-"

"I'm cold," she says then, abruptly, letting out a suspicious sound.

Tears.

_Choking tears. _

I need to back off now.

Right now.

After everything that's happened...

_'and then...to talk about her father, too...'_

"It's going to be okay. I promise."

"I want a bath," she says dully, not acknowledging what I've just said.

There's no color in her words now. No fight left.

"I'm going to get a bath," she restates again, and she rises then, almost runs from the room, while I sit on the all-too pretty bedspread feeling...

_overwhelmed._

_Horrible._

_Stupid._

I hear the gushing, gurgling sound of water flooding the tub hit the hallway a few minutes later.

Then a clicking of a door against its frame.

The metallic edge of a lock flicking into place.

Effectively locking me out.

**_Great._**


	6. Chapter 6

**Title - Redress - Chapter 6**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **Sometimes the most innocuous events can signal brutal happenings. Such as a telephone ringing once in the night, and then abruptly stopping. Warnings: for violence and sensitive subject matter.

**A/N:** This chapter is a solid **M**. Semi-graphic depiction of violence and rape. Please proceed cautiously. It's dark, even for me.

* * *

I turn on Grace's TV, flip though the stations absently, angry with myself. Angry that Lisbon is so upset now that she's isolated herself in the bathroom, locking me out.

I dismally look for something inane and high energy... _Remember the 80's_ flashes up on the screen. A music station.

_Perfect._

I then head back to the entry way, make sure everything is, indeed, locked and bolted. That the chain has been properly secured across the frame as an extra security measure. It has been -_ I KNEW it had been _- but I still felt compelled to check. It's an old sensation, an old ritual - this checking. A feature that started when I was actually very young, but which was mild enough that I could push away whenever the compulsive feelings hit. Or, usually - which I could push away with only slight discomfort.

However, after my wife and child died the compulsion...lingered around. Freshly borne, but waiting to strike. Waiting until I was better, in a sense. Waiting until the thoughts of self destruction - of self _annihilation_ - were thoughts I tried to push away. In fact, the feelings only came back to the fore once I was trying to recover my life. Trying to find some sort of meaning in the meaninglessness of having my beloved wife and daughter massacred.

So back to the clinic I went, but as an outpatient this time. I even got to talk to Sophie again, who explained that OCD can be triggered by traumatic events, worsened by them - undoubtedly. She gave me names of counsellors who dealt with those who had both PTSD and OCD as the thoughts became worse. Much much worse...changing from checking obsessions to something darker, something that scared _me_ even during the awful time when I wanted to die.

_"OCD and harm-thoughts are not uncommon Patrick."_

Still, I was worried, and I pressed down on my arms, to feel the old scars, to feel the site of damage from before.

_"What if...I can't stop? What if something happens? Because I don't want to hurt myself anymore, but-"_

_"You've been through an unimaginable trauma. A huge psychic shock. Add...previously undiagnosed obsessive compulsive disorder to the mix...and..."_

I nodded my head - _okay, okay_ - but in reality, I was terrified.

Starred at my shoes.

_"So I'm definitely not going to do anything to myself?"_

I had told Sophie that I had a strange fear of...stabbing myself in the eye. Just taking a pair of scissors and stabbing myself before anyone could stop me.

I told her that I was worried that I was losing my mind.

_"It's a terrible compulsive thought, Patrick. But that's all it is. A thought. It's part of your disorder."_

But how could anyone be so certain?

Especially _Sophie_...who had **seen **what I had been like when I was hospitalized the first time. Who had seen me nip at my arm when I had nothing else at my disposal? Nip and nip until I created a wound, a pumping wound that gushed enough blood that I was able to reenact the horror I had found in my home. Nip and create a red, bloody smiley face of my own on the wall.

A locked warm, after that.

So how could she be certain that I wouldn't hurt myself when the impulse struck?

She gave me some prescriptions, which I took for a couple years until the thoughts of jumping out in front of buses, off bridges - or worse...of taking forks and knives and stabbing them into my hand, my eyes...all sort of faded into a grey muddled anxiety. Because after a few years the thoughts weren't so stringent. Weren't as strong.

Probably because I had replaced the insane thoughts with very _sane_ thoughts of revenge. And THOSE thoughts now consumed me in a way the compulsive, self-harming thoughts never could.

So I got 'better.'

I went home. Back to the house that was, actually, no longer home - and never would be. The very antithesis of a home, truly. But I went back to that_ place_, and got rid of my furniture. Got rid of my knives and forks and scissors. Left my rounded items, my tea cups and saucers, all the innocuous items - those could stay.

But the blender? Gone.

I chucked out my straight razors, too - the only kind I had ever used previously - and invested in electric Braun razors instead.

_"Compulsive harm thoughts are a different animal to true self-harming or suicidal ideation,"_ Sophie had said.

Yet...I had cut my arms down to the bone once before. Nicked the bone, actually, in my left arm.

So obviously I had no real problem engaging in self-harm, either.

* * *

_'It's a miracle you survived, really,' _Sophie had told me one foggy winter morning, when the light was overcast, and I sat shivering in her office. We had been discussing _panic attacks and ways to cope_. I had been given the diagnosis of PTSD, too, which I didn't much appreciate.

Surely...anyone who had come home to find their wife and child butchered...would have nightmares. _Certainly_, on most evenings such persons would wake up screaming. Certainly little reminders of the event, or symbols of the lost loved ones, or anything caught up with that night, really...would trigger flashbacks. And of course, realistically...what self-preserving entity would NOT be hypervigilant afterwards?

So when Sophie told me I fit the bill for PTSD, and suffered from moderate obsessive compulsive disorder, I almost laughed.

_"I don't think this is a laughing matter, Patrick. You yelled at Benny when she tried to serve you tea and added cream on top of the teabag instead of before."_

_"Because that's not the way you MAKE tea,"_ I had tried to say, to defend myself - weakly.

_"But it all gets mixed up in the end. It's a liquid. The distinction is...almost irrelevant. But you got angry - and stressed - because she.."_

I had brought my hand up to my head, frowning when I felt the new white cloth of gauze around my wrist catching on my hair.

_"I want to make my own tea. I don't like feeling as if I can't...do even that..."_

Which was not a completely screwed up statement at all. I had been watched for four months while shaving. I had been given shoes without laces and was allowed only a spoon to eat with - but never a knife nor fork. Their lack of trust in my ability to...**not **stab myself or cut myself or burn myself was probably what was generating such anxiety.

But Sophie, apparently, thought we should move on. Wanted to talk about dreams. About one in particular...that I had been having, over and over again.

The worst one. In which I was Red John, and not Red John all at the same time. The one in which I was slicing open my daughters throat. And revelling in it. Painting shapes in her blood on the wall.

I would wake up screaming every night, and it had gone on for three weeks. So the orderlies would always come in and threaten me with haloperidol if I didn't **stop. screaming**.

**_As if I was TRYING to disturb them on purpose._**

And half the time, I would bite down on my lip, try to keep the screams in my body and not let them hit the airwaves where others would hear them. But depending who was on staff, I'd either get drugged out of my mind and spend the next two days in a near catatonic stupor... Or someone nice - someone like Benny - would alert _Sophie_, and she'd come and talk to me, sometimes take my whole body and let it fall into her shoulder where I'd struggle for breath, horrified with what I had seen in the nightmares, what I'd have been _doing_ in those ghastly visions...

_"I killed my daughter," _I'd cry out over and over again, sometimes getting snot and tears on Sophie, sometimes feeling nothing but coldness - as if I had been gutted, or dumped into a freezing lake. Numb. Because, sometimes there was no 'me' to speak of... and in those times, I wouldn't cry at all.

_"You did not kill your child, Patrick... I promise you, you didn't." _

_"In the dream I was killing her!"_

Before long, the assertion would turn into a question...a repetitious question, _over and over and over _again while I sought out _Reassurance with a capital R. _A feature of the OCD, they said.

_"Did I kill my daughter? Did I kill Charlotte? Please...t..tell ME!"_

Until I could stop asking that question, Sophie had said, I would remain in the clinic.

So...over time, I stopped asking the question. But the feeling...that I was responsible...for their deaths...?

That never left.

* * *

I check the door to the bathroom once more, shaking my head, angry with myself for not having...beat...the compulsions. Those feelings.

Then I drag my own duffel to the guest room.

Which doesn't smell like cookies at all anymore, but of all the crazy coincedences...**_cinnamon._**

I flop down into the bed, and groan.

* * *

I watch two episodes of **_Jeopardy! _**while Lisbon sits in the tub. She's dead silent, too, though I stop my ministrations after I knock on the door the second time, and instead of responding verbally...she splashes the water about like a petulant little kid.

_...to let me know she's alive._

Despite the seriousness of what's happening - what _has_ happened - I smile, slightly. Then I return to the ridiculously comfortable sofa and continue watching Alex Trebek.

And I'm actually in first place myself, until it comes to the final answer section and the category is..._sports._

_Damn it._

Gets me every time; I know next to nothing about most sports, so I scowl at the screen and sigh, only perking up when I hear the bathtub...drain.

The gurgling, whooshing sound of water being whisked away is undeniable, and I trundle to Lisbon's room, knowing that she'll probably need her bag. She rushed away from me so quickly - impulsively - that she probably forgot all about it in her haste.

Deliberating only briefly, I grab the bag of products I had purchased from the pharmacy, roll the bag tightly up, unzip Lisbon's duffel and place the items towards the top where she'll find everything easily. This way she has what she needs - and I don't have to mention it again. Nor be put in the disagreeable position of having to bring up truthful aspects of her recovery just because she'd rather deny what is happening to her.

"Lisbon...?," I rap gingerly against the bathroom door, "Do you want your carry on bag?"

The door opens a bit.

"S-sure," she starts, then seems to ground herself (_I can see the mental pep talk forming in her mind_) and reaches out hesitantly.

Now, in the harsh daylight of the apartment, her bruised wrist - _the sheer degree of bruising and violence inflicted on her _- takes me aback, and I almost drop the bag in shock. Lisbon seems to accurately read my shock, and quickly secures the towel (_I imagine it's a towel - the door has barely been opened more than a crack_), before her other arm comes to move over the first battered limb. As if she's trying...to hide the wounds.

It doesn't help much...as her other arm is in worse shape, truly - and totally encased in plaster. The terribly jolting reminder that those bastards actually _broke_ her arm!...have me readying the bag, offering support as quickly as she's pushing away from me, resistant.

"I'm getting cold just standing here," she says, sounding almost snarkily like her old self - her voice carrying a bite. Just enough tension and warning that my smile falters, and I hand over the duffel without pause - my query as to what she'd like for dinner dying on my lips as she shuts the door a second later.

* * *

"Oh _No_, Merv Griffin..._ No_...I do not want a _Leap Frog early-readers set!_ Who wants THAT for a prize?," I yammer from the couch, while I hear that classic Lisbon snort, and look up sheepishly.

_Caught._

She has totally changed now - and is just as bundled up as before, but totally clean. I know she must feel substantially better for that reason alone.

"Feel better?," I test cautiously.

"Yes," and she flushes then, not coming to sit by me on the couch as I had hoped, but instead retreating to the smaller upholstered easy chair propped perpendicular to where I'm now sprawled out.

"Thank you Jane...for...everything," and her voice trails off, while I take in the possible meanings that this one so-called simple statement could have.

"You don't have to thank me, Lisbon. Friends help friends...," and I pause, doubting my next words, but feeling as if they need to be spoken. After all, we'll be spending quite a bit of time together in the next few weeks. "You know...if there is anything at all that you need...you don't have to be ashamed to ask..." I inform her quietly.

I catch her wince then, and I catch _something else_. Not just embarrassment I realize, but genuine _pain_. Physical pain.

"Do you..._hurt_?," and my voice comes out lighter and more at ease than I feel.

"Mmmm," she confirms, bypassing a direct _'yes.'_

One battered hand comes to encircle around her stomach. One casted arm falls to her side, dull and useless.

I need to think. Lisbon has three different medications for pain. I need to know what to give her.

"Ulcer?," I am depending on the process of elimination here.

"That too," she affirms, staring groggily at the television screen while _The Price is Right _starts up.

Oh? **_Oh. _**I get it immediately.

"Does a hot water bottle usually help? I got you a hot water bottle at the store."

Ulcer...or_ something else_...hot water bottles usually help with abdominal pain. My wife taught me that.

"Sometimes," she whispers.

I continue talking to her while I fill up the red bottle with hot, hot water from the kitchen sink, wiping off the spilled water and covering the whole thing in the pillowcase that I pilfered from the guest room. The direct heat on her skin may be too hot. I return to the living room a few seconds later, and assist in pulling back the terry cloth robe since Lisbon is having difficulty unbuttoning the sash.

"Stop Jane!," she gulps quickly, all fast instincts and unconcealed fear.

I pull back immediately.

"You'll feel better if you put it right next to your stomach," I say slowly, reasonably.

"O-ok," she trails off, fear still etched on her features.

I resist leaning over and kissing her forehead. I know it will simply make her feel more...unstable.

"We'll just move your robe out of the way a little," I say aloud, informing her of all my actions before I proceed, "and...here, lift your shirt a little, Lisbon," and she does, looking away from me while I press the warm bottle to her stomach, and then pull everything back down, securing her in the purple throw until she's totally cocooned in cloth.

* * *

I make clam linguine with cream sauce while Lisbon dozes to the inane chattering of guests on _The Price is Right_.

When I'm done cooking the stuff, I cut up Lisbon's noodles into smaller bite sized pieces, knowing she won't be able to actually twirl the pasta on the fork very easily. A smattering of parlsey and Parmesan, and we're done. Carrying the two bowls, I return to the living room, and nudge the coffee table closer to where she naps. I place the two plates down, then return a few minutes later with tea for me, and hot cocoa for her.

When her eyes slowly blink open, I smile, and proffer her two painkillers.

"What are they?"

She fingers the meds almost cautiously. Less so with the first one - ridiculously small and yellow.

"Rabeprazole," I state easily, while she nods - already knowing the answer to pill #1. Ulcer medication.

She's been taking it for years.

Next, a larger white one.

"Pamabrom and pyrilamine maleate. Doctor prescribed," I inform her, without needling.

"Sleeping pill?," she grumbles.

"No. High strength Midol, in effect."

She drops it on the table, looking angry.

"Don't need it."

I can_...see_...that she's in pain.

"Ok," I'm not going to argue with her. Not when I can tell it's making her upset. "How about I just leave them with you, then?"

"Damn it, Jane! Is this...your back-door approach of getting me to talk to you about it?"

Her voice is a low level hum.

I'm surprised that she so readily jumped to that conclusion.

"About what?"

I'm being decidedly vague. But not because I want to hurt her.

I want to help her.

But I can't do that if she keeps shutting me out.

"Y-you..._know what_. About_ them_...a-about what they...," and she stops abruptly, pushing against her knees forcefully.

It's an odd manuver. One I saw her do in the hospital. I have no idea what it means, as it's not a classic motion belying anxiety, fear, anger.

"You told me...you couldn't remember very much. But that's not true, is it?"

I bat at the remote, and turn the TV off before I take her uncasted arm.

Finally...she opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it quickly.

She shakes her head. **_'No.'_**

"C'mere," I reach for her, and pull her into a makeshift hug.

She almost folds in upon herself.

"You can remember _everything_ that happened."

She nods.

"It's going round and round in your head - those horrible images. And you can't get them to stop, can you?"

With her free arm, she stretches out the material of the blanket, training her eyes on the patterns.

Exposing intricate holes as the material is pulled taut.

"I thought you were_ mad _at me," she whispers at long last, her eyes looking lost.

**_What?_**

"Lisbon...why on earth would I be mad at you? _HOW _could I be mad at _you_?"

She bites her lip. Nervous.

"When I called you..._tried to call you_...I thought you'd come. And they...," she stops, looks whitish-green.

**_Maybe this wasn't a good idea._**

"One of them...he turned the phone off. And all I could think of when they were...when they-"

_I think we should stop this._

"I just...kept thinking_...Jane's coming, he will come. He will come, don't worry, he will come..._over and over again."

We should stop.

**_Right now._**

"Even when...even when they were...," and the words die off, because she still can't _speak_ of it, "even **_then_**, I just told myself over and over_ "Jane's coming."_"

Her entire body is shaking.

"I'm so sorry," and I push down bile, grasp her hand.

I _had _called back, but received no response.

I had assumed...that she had wanted to discuss our current case, and had called me originally on impulse. Had then seen the time a moment later, and had reevaluated. Hung up.

_It had been nearly 1 in the morning..._

When I had called back a few moments later, her cell phone had been turned off.

**_*You have reached Teresa Lisbon at 477-2829. Please leave a brief message with your name, and telephone number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.*_**

I should have gotten in my car. I should have gone to check on her.

**_*Thanks a lot.*_**

I didn't.

And suddenly - the woman who was pushing me away a few moments ago now seems to be clinging onto me for dear life.

"I thought...they were going to _kill me_. It was only because I stopped fighting them...because I_ let them_-"

"You didn't** LET **them, Lisbon. There is no..._letting _here!"

Her hand is restlessly playing with the seam of the blanket.

Another feature I noted when she was in the clinic.

"Jane...I'm glad you didn't come..."

It takes all my strength not to pull back in shock. Not to pull back and try to catch her eyes, gutted by this new revelation.

"What?," I rasp.

"They didn't care how badly they hurt me. I bled...they didn't stop. They wouldn't have _hesitated to kill _you."

She was..._worried?_ Worried for me?

Worried I'd be hurt?

"They had...knives..."

I want to throw up.

"I should have fought more...I _could_ have...but-," and her eyes are imploring me to understand. Understand some misplaced and totally WRONG sense of ownership. As if she were...complicit in the events that took place.

I don't say anything. I _can't _say anything.

"In my mouth...they put a-"

I knew before know that she had been gagged.

First, they hit her hard enough to give her a concussion. Then they gagged her.

Then they raped her.

The step-by-step clinical breakdown that I had heard at the hospital had made me ill.

But I feel like screaming now.

"I _couldn't_...," and her hand is around her throat, indicating that she couldn't cry out, couldn't scream for help.

A phantom motion to her mouth.

The grasp on my collar tightens.

"They said...that if I didn't...stop...didn't stop..._fighting..._if I didn't let them put it...in me, they'd put the _knife_ in me instead."

I feel a slow, curdling sickness fizz up my throat, and I push away the impending sense of horror, knowing she needs me.

Lisbon _needs _me.

"Jane, I...I **_let_** them...ok? _I let them!_," and her voice suddenly sounds so tormented, that I reach for her, pull her into a makeshift hug.

"You didn't let them. You **_didn't_**," I mutter, sotto voice. A mantra.

If I have to say it a thousand times, I will.

"I should have..._fought them_..."

I tap her cast lightly, rub her wrist. Let my hands float to her face. To the black eye, the cuts.

"You _DID _fight them, Lisbon! You stopped when they threatened you with death. That's not a choice. There's no...choice there."

I hear her swallow down something..._strangled, _while I continue to hold her to my chest, continue to stroke her hair.

"I'm here, and you're safe. You're safe now," and I shift my positioning, to free her some space - aware of her unbound wrist. Aware of the pain she's in.

That sound again. That low guttural sound. Like something threatening to _erupt_.

"It's _okay._ It's okay to let go. It doesn't make you weak. Crying doesn't make you weak," I say to the air, wondering if she's hearing me at all any more.

...knowing I'm trying not to cry _myself._

Though, truly, I'm not worried about her crying.

Instead, her breaths are so rapid... I'm much more afraid of hyperventilation at this point.

"You've got to slow down your breathing, okay? Before you make yourself sick."

My mouth is so close to her ear that I barely have to do more than _breathe_ the words for her to hear.

Lisbon's grasp doesn't let up either, so I can't do much but continue to listen this...god awful sound of...repression. This sound of something not unlike a scream...edging out, trying to spill out.

I rub at her back then, instinctively - just like I used to do with Charlotte when she would awaken from a night terror. And I can tell that she's listening to me - _actually listening _- because her breathing slows down after a few moments as I talk her through it. As I tell her to focus on breathing in, and breathing out, and holding the breath.

And then - several minutes later - it passes.

I feel her pulse decrease slightly.

_Panic attack averted._

Although suddenly - _SUDDENLY_ - like the clap of thunder - _Agent _Lisbon is back. All hard edges and distance and self-deprecating embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," she wheezes, blinking rapidly in a fashion that lets me know she's mortified.

"That's okay," I say with determination. Let her coil back into herself. Give her that necessary space before offering her a glass of water.

She takes a long sip, stares at the glass.

Staring, staring...

Studying it as if it's the most interesting object in the world.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title - Redress - Chapter 7**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **Sometimes the most innocuous events can signal brutal happenings. Such as a telephone ringing once in the night, and then abruptly stopping. Warnings: for violence and sensitive subject matter.

**A/N: **the last few months have been intensely busy, and draining, so I apologize for the delays! I will try to have updates for my other WIP's soon. Thanks for your patience, you guys :) This chapter of course, takes place exactly where chapter 6 left off. I probably should warn everyone in advance - this chapter is likely to be the most tense. But I wanted to advance the J/L friendship and get a bunch of unresolved issues out of the way. Moving forward, things will start to look up.

* * *

I can deal with quietude.

I can.

Sometimes it's...soothing. It gives you the necessary time to gather your thoughts.

Sometimes it's needed.

In Lisbon's case, _certainly._ She spends so much time staying busy - always busy - filling up her time with noise and work and everything _else..._

_Sometimes I want quiet, for her._

And yet, right now, the quiet is unnerving.

"Lisbon," I test gently, almost feeling like I'm four years old again. That terrified four year old who had to test the bathtub water with my hand. That little kid who couldn't have bubbles in the tub no matter what. Who always, without fail, had to see all the way to the _bottom._ It was never just the water (although the depth of the substance scared me enough). It was not being able to **_see_** to the bottom._ To see what was lurking._

I've always wanted - no, _needed_ - to know what is lurking at the bottom of the waters.

"I think you averted that one," I say softly, referencing her dropping pulse, her freshly skirted panic attack.

Which - through force of will alone - she has. Amazingly.

But _just barely_, so I oh-so-carefully reach for her, still not really getting a solid read on her emotions, or what she *wants* right now. From me. She's...guarded a lot of the time, for sure. And maybe that's why I reach for her with hesitation now. Because her guardedness makes these physical connections harder for me to attempt.

Even when she needs them. Those touches. Those little motions of support.

"I...," she starts, awkwardness clearly present in her voice, before she stops speaking altogether for a moment. "I'm sorry."

"_No_," I insist, though I strive to keep my voice light. "No apologies. None. _None. _Certainly not about this. Not about anything that stems from this..."

I see her cheeks flush, and she wraps her hands around her midsection in response.

_So much shame._

As she moves, now, the gown she's wearing stretches slightly around her frame. A moment later, her body shifts back against the couch, although I can clearly see the motion is a forced type of so-called calm. There is nothing naturally calm and at ease in her form. Not in her rigid back and the tension of her hands as I see her pick up a fork, and push at her pasta, disinterested.

Lisbon's weight is down a few pounds, I'm sure of it. I highly doubt she's eaten much of anything in the last few days, and the woman has a speedier metabolism than even Rigsby, if the slight gaunt look of her face is any indication.

"Think you can eat a bit?"

With the ulcer, with her personality...with her willingness to push away things that upset her, I don't want this to become a habit. Not this, not on top of everything else.

"I'm not really hungry...," she trails, not meeting my eyes.

"Few bites, mmm? It'll settle your stomach. You can't take your ulcer meds without a bit of food anyway, can you?"

I am not completely suicidal. I don't mention any _other_ type of meds. The ulcer meds are open for discussion, though, in a sense. They are safe ground. Familiar. Her ulcer predates the current upset, the current pains. And I know Lisbon will grab onto discussions that rid herself of the current topic, however unhealthy that blatant denial is for her. Of course, from that understanding, I am proud of how much she's already revealed on her own. The inherent trust it implies, in me. And for now, I'd be happier having her speak freely with me about anything than clamming up and remaining stone-cold silent.

"I cooked you fetuccini and clams and stuff. Your_ favourite_...," I sing-song, while fiddling around with the television remote. Trying to find something both interesting, but also lacking in violence, gore, or general _best-to-avoid-at-dinner-time_ grossness.

"_'And stuff'_," she whispers, almost to herself, a smile playing on her lips. "I'll have a bit, sure" she agrees a beat later, not even arguing against my assertion of her food preferences. Probably more out of exhaustion than anything else.

Grabbing a couple throws, I toss a maroon one her way, knowing her desire to feel covered is trumping her desire for physical closeness. Even so, I ease down beside her, and with a slightly larger throw, cover us both, only briefly allowing Lisbon to raise her bowl of pasta before tucking the corners of the blanket underneath her snuggly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her certain studiousness - a look that passes so quickly from incredulity at my boldness, that for a second I'm almost convinced I've imagined it. But then, slowly, the startled look is replaced with a knowing shake of her head and a small, quickly tempered smile.

Lisbon leans sidelong into the cushions, pulling her legs up and under the gown, then crossing her arms as best she can with the cast, before letting her head loll into her hands. And while part of me just wants to reach for her, and pull her down to lay against me into a less strained position, I quickly banish that idea from consideration. I've already taken more than my fair share of liberties with her space tonight. Any more, and I could do more harm than good.

"ET is on?," I hear Lisbon mutter, which jolts me from my musings.

* * *

"Poor ET," Lisbon starts. "You know...I never liked dogs when I was a kid. I mean, I was scared of them."

I try not to chuckle.

"You? _Miss Dogs-are-better-than-People_ Lisbon?"

Lisbon nods. Yawns. Nods again.

"We can always watch this another time. You're tired," I add.

She sits up a bit more firmly then, rousing herself to an alert state.

"No. I'm not. I like this movie."

I squash down an impulse to tell her that liking a movie and being tired are two very different things.

I squash down an impulse to move a tendril of hair out of her eyes.

"You're falling asleep, Lisbon. Maybe we should turn it off... get some shut eye, yeah? We can rent it tomorrow or something."

And there we have it.

That momentary flash of fear.

She doesn't want to sleep. She doesn't want to be alone.

And she's too proud and too self-restrained to bring those issues up herself.

So instead, she bites her lip, considers her options. "If you want to sleep Jane, I can watch this with headphones on."

I rub my eyes, not knowing how I want to play this. Not knowing _how_ I should play this.

"Hold on," and I rise quickly, pad to the guest room that Grace has designated for me, and promptly return with four pillows and two duvets.

I don't miss her look of suspicion, but I don't comment on it, either.

The couch is large enough for Lisbon, herself. But there's also a pull out loveseat nearby which handily enough seems to be just big enough for me, too.

It's really...not too bad a plan. It covers the necessities: watching her, making sure she's okay, not leaving her alone with her fears.

It also lacks any sort of intimacy that could unnerve her.

Just two friends, crashing on couches, watching ET. And if we fall asleep, we fall asleep.

_No biggie._

"We'll convert these into rest stops, and then if we fall asleep here it'll be better than the alternative."

Lisbon nods and tries to hop up and help me make the 'beds.' I redirect her back to the couch.

"Sit."

She does.

"Good girl. Now... _Stay_."

I receive a half-hearted glare, and this time I do laugh stopping only when a new idea hits me.

"Oh no, wait," and I gently ease her up from the space, propping two pillows behind her head, feeling like I'm manipulating a wooden doll.

"There."

She mouths a nearly inaudible _thank you_, looking suddenly embarrassed.

"And now, just so you don't freeze to death...," and I wait until Lisbon has stilled.

"You're...cocooning me in, Jane," she quips.

And I sort of _am._

"Well. Yes. Of course. I don't want you rolling off the couch," I respond immediately, flashing her a smile.

But I give her a knowing smile, and nudge her bowl of pasta closer to her lap now that she's all tucked in - trapped under two throws and a duvet.

"Oh, good plan! Very smooth," she laughs lightly a moment later.

"Yup," I add, distractedly, trying to determine the best way of rearranging the much smaller loveseat into a makeshift bed that will accommodate my height.

"Oh, heck," I mutter pulling off the couch cushions, pushing back the loveseat several feet. "I'm just sleeping here," I state, staking my spot on the floor which conveniently can be created just a couple feet away from Teresa. _If_ I nudge the coffee table and other needless room accessories out of the way first, that is.

"You...you don't have to do this...Jane," and Lisbon's mouth puckers inwards, unsure.

And there we have it: her anxiety, her misplaced guilt, her clashing feelings of fear and pride.

The fear, I suspect, is slightly trumping pride tonight or else she would have picked up on my movements, and their meanings, far sooner.

"You have a perfectly good _bed_."

"Meh. This is fine. It'll be like...camping," I trail off, unzipping a blue and red checked sleeping bag as case in point.

"_Camping_," Lisbon begins. "Have you ever _been_ camping?"

I don't need to give that any thought.

"That's that activity with those...whachamacillits?..._tents_?"

I hear Lisbon laugh softly, her breath coming out in a wheeze.

And another yawn, again.

"No...seriously. Have you?"

She seems suddenly quite interested in my woodland adventures.

I rise, remove the bowl of barely touched pasta, and deposit it onto the coffee table.

"No. Not really. Why? Is it a pre-requesite for being your friend or something?," I ask glibly, only half paying attention to the movie now.

"Absolutely. You must like dogs, and you must like camping. Otherwise I'm delisting you right now."

I smile.

"Boot me out of your Facebook Top 8, will ya?," I start, amused, as Lisbon grins against her pillow, which is now flush against her face.

_Poor woman's exhausted._

"I know better than to play with fire, Jane."

Raven hair has spilled over the percale pillowcase, drying in waves. From this angle, I can't see the horrible bruising. The staggering pallor. The...woundedness.

It's really bizarre how much more relaxed I feel, when I can't see the injuries. I gulp down my anxiety, and address her statement.

"You really think that I'd go out of my way to _embarrass_ you? How little you think of my character, Lisbon!"

"My brothers _would._ And with you? They'd tota..."

But she stops then.

Silence.

Abrupt silence.

I bite down on my lips to keep from smirking, suddenly interested in this new information.

"Nuh uh. _No way_ Jane...," she starts, her voice quickly losing its amused edge.

"T'sk t'sk Teresa. So _paranoid_."

I turn back to the screen, trying to school my expression into something resembling... innocence. It's not something I need to attempt a moment later though, as Lisbon's voice takes on an incessant sort of urgency, leaving me suddenly confused.

"Please promise me! Promise me you won't pester them..."

"Oh come on, Lisbon! They're probably just proud of their big sister. And why shouldn't they be? I mean-..."

"_No, Jane._ They'd freak. James would just drop everything. And Tommy, when he's stressed he just...he gets _so worked up_...please. Don't. _Please_."

Insistent.

_Painful insistence._

_'They'd freak.'_

What does she think I'm going to say anyway? Or do?

My heart is thundering away now - beating double time.

"Wait...you think...you I'd tell them about _this_?"

Finding the remote, I quickly hit the power button, effectively darkening the room, but shutting off the noise and distraction of the film concurrently.

It scarcely matters, as Lisbon barely moves. Instead she turns further towards the back of the couch, and away from my line of sight.

"Not intentionally."

Her voice sounds small.

Nervous.

Almost child-like.

"_Unintentionally_, then?"

I'm not trying to be jerky. I'm just trying to get my mind around Lisbon's fear.

"You can't...hide things from them, Jane. They always...figure it out."

I shift in the sleeping bag, and try - unsuccessfully - to catch Lisbon's gaze.

"So you think...they'll manage to somehow...read my mind, huh?"

The words sound facetious, and I kick myself mentally when Lisbon goes quiet.

"No...of course not," she says numbly, more breath alone than anything else. "I just can't..._lie_ to my brothers. I won't, Jane."

My confusion is growing by the second.

"But I can't...tell them about this either. _I won't_..."

At this rate Lisbon's going to work herself up into a frenzy.

_Or trigger an ulcer attack._

So I rise from my makeshift floor-bed, and amble on over to the couch, taking up a bit of free space besides her.

"Calm down, and scoot over," I start lightly, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

Lisbon does, cast and all. Hair now fully dry and splayed out in darkest waves. Darker too, for the relative blackness of the room. I reach over and light a vanilla candle with the nearby clipper lighter, though I'm only minimally soothed by the gentle glow that now emanates from the center of the room.

I notice that Lisbon immediately focuses on the flickering flame.

"Ok...so your brothers don't know. Anything. And you have no intentions of telling them," I start. The words are not questions, just basic summation.

Lisbon then, sounding years younger. _"No."_

"You don't think they could help? That they'd...not be supportive?," and I squint against the words, against her fear.

She pulls the duvet up further. Up to her throat.

"They'd try, Jane. But I _can't...I won't..."_

"You trust them. But not enough to tell them?"

_I know that's not it at all._

I also know that it will get her to talk. Will get her out of her fog. This... spell.

"That's not fair. You know... _you know_ that's not fair!"

"No. None of this is fair. But I was under the impression that you could tell them anything."

"If I wanted them to know, they'd know! It's not too hard understand, really. I don't _want_ them to know, Jane!"

"_Lisbon_..."

"Don't you get it, Jane? I didn't want _anyone_ to know! Not even you! Especially not you."

I try not to let her words hurt me. I know they aren't meant to _hurt. _I know this isn't about _me._

And yet...

"'_Even me.' _You'd rather...struggle alone with this, then rely on anyone else? Trust someone else?"

I gulp down a razored, hot feeling. The soreness that only seems to hit me when I'm pushing down emotional pain.

"This isn't about trust," she intones, deadly. Her words are _brittle_ as she stares at her lap.

_Ready to fall apart..._

Almost anyone could muster up more insistence than_ that_ though; all of a sudden my throat feels swollen with a pain akin to rejection.

"Are you sure? Because, I know I haven't always been as forthright with you as I should have."

Lisbon seems to squirm in her seat then, unable to deny my words.

"But you know I'd never betray you...you know that, right?"

My voice drops away to nothingness, and my sense of sadness increases as she rigidly fixates on the candle. The floor. The table. Anywhere but...me. Of course, I know I need to get a grip. I know that I'm being _ridiculous_.

"This isn't about trusting them, Jane. Or..._you. _It's not...," and she exhales shakily,_ "Goddamnit_," she hisses, more to herself before taking a deep breath, "you...you pick up on everything ELSE, Jane. _Why can't you pick up on this?_"

I blink then, feeling horrendously daft. For a woman who I once claimed was so transparent, I can't seem to string her thoughts together or make sense of much right now. I do sense the honesty behind her assertions, however, and maybe that alone is what is giving me the courage to continue speaking with her about this.

But before I can respond, she adds, almost shyly, "This isn't because I don't trust you. It's because... I_ do_."

And again, I feel somewhat lost. I clear my throat - the surface hurt being displaced by confusion.

"You trust me, but not enough that you wanted me to know?"

"I asked you not to tell the team _either_, remember? And I trust them!"

"Yes. You do. So...explain this to me, because I don't understand how that works."

She gives a strangled laugh. Well, it's not quite a laugh, actually. There's nothing humorous in the sound. And suddenly - starkly - I get it.

"Wait... You think this changes...how I_ see_ you? That I've lost_ respect_ for you?"

She doesn't speak for a full twenty seconds. Just busies herself with more picking at imaginary lint, and then: "I _know_ it change things. I know that it _must_."

_Oh Lisbon._

"How can you even think that for a second? How did that thought even enter your mind?"

"I'm not weak, Jane. And I told you! I told you what I did! How I _let_-"

With two fingertips at her lips, I stop her from speaking.

_I feel sick._

"What _you_ did?," I choke out, feeling nauseous. Feeling nauseous that my best friend is full of such pain, and I can't seem to reach her.

"What the hell do you think you did wrong anyway, Lisbon? Trust that you were safe in your own home? Not double check your alarm system? Get a bath and leave your gun in the other room? Which terrible crime did you commit?_ What_?"

In the relative darkness, I don't miss the swallow. The sound of compression. The rapid intake of warm hot breath.

_Careful, Patrick..._

I will myself to calm down, and count back from ten before continuing on_._

"Where do we...go from here, then?," I start tentatively once more, feeling only slightly more composed. "You're obviously hurting, and I want to help you."

She presses against her eyes with one crumpled fist. Her bad arm lays by her side, useless and rejected.

"Please don't ask me any more questions about it, Jane. I just want to forget it ever happened."

"Lisbon, you can't...run away from something like this..."

"I just want to forget that I _let it happen_," she whispers. "Can't you get that?"

Even under the duvet, I feel terribly cold.

"Stop this. Please. You don't have anything to be ashamed of Lisbon," and I rapidly try to sort anger from sadness, anger from insistence. I try again.

"You didn't do anything _wrong_."

"I_ let them-"_

_No. Not this again._

"Damnit Lisbon! You didn't let anyone do _anything_!"

Her eyes barely catch mine, and then, quickly, are back down to her lap.

"You weren't _there_, Jane," she insists miserably. "You weren't there."

Her voice chokes up into a strangled cry. And in the back of my mind, I can sense the double meaning in that statement. I also know that now is not the time to address that issue.

"I'm so sorry. I know I wasn't there." It's all I can say before my voice runs hoarse.

_If she had any idea how much I wish I could turn back time..._

"No! I didn't mean it like_ that_...," but those green eyes stare at me in pain all the same, and I can't help but feel accused.

I know that it's not her intention. I also know how much guilt I feel over this nightmare.

"_Jane_," and even that much comes out with a panicked edge.

_Calm her down, before she has another panic attack, genius. _

"You...Jane...you don't even _know_ what I let them do..."

I resist a sudden impulse to reach for her. Hug her. At this point, it would just be selfish. It would benefit me more than her.

"Lisbon...please stop talking like this. Please... _stop this_ honey. You were attacked. You were hurt. You didn't want it and you didn't ask for it, and you certainly did everything in your power to stop it from happening."

_The woman has a broken arm! How can she be blaming herself for anything?_

"You wouldn't be talking to me like this if you really knew! You would..._you_..."

"I'd _what_?," I begin, not wanting to let her off the hook just yet. Not wanting to let this subject just drop.

Not given the enormity of what she's implying here. About herself. As if she's...complicit. As if she _is_ guilty in the proceedings.

"I'd _what?," _I try again, when she says nothing. "Come on...finish that thought."

But apparently she _can't_ finish that thought. Apparently this was not a thought she had intended to vocalize _at all_, because all I get in response to my question is a rapid succession of head shaking, her eyes wide and full of horror. When she tries to pull away, I resist... but only slightly.

"Please stop fighting me, Lisbon. I can't..._do anything_ if you won't talk to me..."

"You can't change it Jane! You can't change what I _did!_"

And that self-loathing, again. So strong and rancid, the words spewing out like acid.

"Then tell me! Tell me exactly what you did! What _you_ did wrong!"

Her eyes meet up with mine, sensing the challenge. And she's so worked up and upset that for a second I think she might actually say something, however impulsively it would be, that might allow for me to put her shame some kind of context.

Her mouth, then: opening and closing, as if trying to articulate the swirling thoughts, the thoughts that are keeping this hell ongoing for her.

There is no event, no participation, nothing that she did _in and of itself_ that would have counted as being willing or participatory. Following basic orders of ceasing movement, staying still..._with a knife to your throat_...doesn't count as a choice. I remind her of this, hoping she'll hear me this time.

"So you didn't move. They threatened to take your life, and you didn't move. And this is what you did_ wrong_?"

A hiccoughed breath. Her fingers contort into a tight balled fist.

"Not just...not just _that_. I did more than _that_."

I stifle down an impulse to tell her that _'more'_ only has any meaning if she had, in fact, done anything wrong. If I said that, however, she'd take it as a critique and all communication would very likely come to an abrupt stop.

"Then tell me. We'll get rid of this... poison. Together."

That movement, again: the third time in as many days. That odd striking, lap pressing movement. As if there is too much tension in Lisbon's body, and she's trying to crack the confines of her physical self.

I touch her knee, wanting to keep her in the here and now.

"Lisbon."

"They _made me_, Jane...," and the voice is...plodding. As if each word is a thousand tonnes, and she doesn't have the energy to speak.

"_I know_...," I try to console her wordlessly, and without physical touch. I restrict myself from reaching for her.

"No...they made me with _my_..." and her hand is wrapped around her mouth now, as if trying to keep something inside. A scream, perhaps. The motion isn't lost on me. What she's implying. What she's _indicating_.

It was something I had considered, of course. It was also something I didn't think she would ever talk to me about, however veiled. I close my own eyes then, and struggle not to get up and punch something. The wall, presumably.

When I open my eyes, I see that hers have now closed.

And that's how this entire evening feels, truthfully. As if we've been just missing one another. Just barely making the necessary connection.

_So close, and yet..._

Even from this distance, I can see that her lashes are wet against her cheeks.

"Okay," I exhale. "So they made you...touch them?"

A nod, and her head comes to rest over the cast, despairing. And for everything I knew about the repercussions of rape, I hadn't expected Lisbon's primary response to be this...self-hatred. Fear, anger, depression. Those would all be...understandable given the circumstances. But I never expected _this. _

_And if her hands were bound. That only leaves... her mouth._

Yet they bruised her throat.

There is so much more to this story than I can even imagine. I'm sure of it.

"Why did they do this, then?," I clarify, only letting my hands briefly touch her throat. With very little strength. A ghost of a touch, just to bring her back. "They...choked you."

She nods briskly, swallows. As if indecisive as to whether or not she should speak or not.

_Come on Lisbon. You can do this..._

"I wouldn't...at first. I_ wouldn't_. So they made it harder for me to refuse."

I take a deep breath, will away the shuddery feeling in my stomach.

"No...they made it_ impossible_ for you to refuse."

I take a deep breath, and quickly clasp Lisbon's good hand, waiting for her to speak again.

She doesn't.

"Lisbon...you said that you trust me..."

A nod. Barely noticeable.

"You still do?," I clarify, not knowing what I will feel if her next words aren't in the affirmative.

Thankfully her _"I do" -_ also barely audible - comes without pause. Without hesitation, which causes something to flutter in my chest that feels a lot like...

_love?_

_Protectiveness._

"I care about you, Lisbon. I care about you so much. You're my...," I swallow, hoarsely, wondering why I suddenly feel shaky. "You're my best friend."

I feel the impact of my words hit her as I take in her slight pulse quicken beneath my fingertips. The rushed increase of blood moving faster through her veins. The contortion of her features into something rawer, too. Something almost _broken. _Which is not want I wanted to see at all. Not what I expected. I had wanted to...console her. To make her feel somewhat secure. To make her feel_ loved, _even if I can't say the word.

_I'm more off my game than I had ever realized._

"I care about you more than...anyone...since they..._my family_...since they died. I care about you more than I thought would be possible, Lisbon."

Her arm pulls back quickly at that - as if burnt.

"_Jane..."_

And only Lisbon would be able to fill my name with so much feeling. So much emotional depth.

I know I need to stop right now, but I can't.

"I didn't think I would be able to care about anyone so strongly again."

These words have a power and a life of their own. I don't even try to reign them in. Not tonight.

"Please _don't_..."

And it's unmistakable. That note of fear, quickly trumping shame.

"Please don't tell you the truth?," I ask cautiously.

She looks so torn. And confused.

"I'm...tired, Jane. I _can't_...talk about this. Not this and everything else. I'm...I..."

Her hands flex in the air as I try to fully understand what Lisbon categories as _'this'_ here. Some worry regarding our friendship? About us being too close, rather than not close enough?

_Something else I missed, apparently..._

"Alright," I murmur, ready to shelve this discussion for now. Knowing we'll have to come back to it soon, though.

Just not tonight.

"You need to sleep, Lisbon. You haven't been sleeping enough."

"I don't want to sleep," she mutters, the tension - and the fatigue - evident. "I don't want...I don't want to_ see_..."

I take her hand gently.

"I know. But I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be right here."

Her cheeks flush slightly - but enough that I catch the additional colour even in the darkness. This woman is far too used to doing everything on her own.

"I'm sorry Jane," she whispers, before turning slightly, easing herself against the pillow.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I restate. I'm obviously going to have to remind her of this point often. And I'm going to need all my patience to effectively send the message home. Because, if I have to say it a thousand times..._I will._

"Thank you," she tries again, looking even more awkward if possible, the words sounding more like a question than a statement.

"You know you don't need to thank me for just behaving like your friend. I _am_ your friend."

She nods then, barely, and goes to say something else, before stopping. Battling with herself, I catch it. That small voice. But I catch it.

Even though she sounds congested as she speaks. Full of unshed tears.

"You're my best friend too, Jane."


End file.
